


Cas and Dean's Evermore

by Infinatesky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apologies, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel's Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Castiel's True Form (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has Abandonment Issues, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Episode: s15e03 The Rupture, Episode: s15e18 Despair, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love in a Gas Station Parking Lot, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Castiel (Supernatural), Love Letters, M/M, Ma'lak Box (Supernatural), Most tags only apply to certain chapters, Not Actually Unrequited Love, One Shot Collection, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Some of both!, Song fic, Taylor Swift Evermore, Weddings, hbo supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinatesky/pseuds/Infinatesky
Summary: A collection of Destiel one-shots each based on a song from Taylor Swift's 2020 album,Evermore.Most recent updates (Full TOC in Ch.1):14.marjorie: "Ever since the mark made Cas go crazy, ever since I had to bury him in a Ma'lak box."15.closure: Sam comes across secret letters between Dean and Cas.16.evermore: Castiel is wary of allowing Dean to help him after he's hurt on a hunt.Except from Ch.8 (15x18 fix-it):Dean turned, facing towards the open room, towards Cas. The shelves of books and boxes cast lines of shadow onto his dusty shoulders. “Cas, about what you said-” Dean started.“You don’t have to say anything, Dean.” The sigil had been cleaned away, but Cas still kept his hand raised, palm flat against the door. He slid it downwards slowly, fingers lingering like rain drops. “I meant it, that happiness can be just in being.”“It doesn’t have to be,” Dean said softly. He pressed his lips together, thinking the thing that he couldn’t say out loud and thinking it and thinking it and directing all of it towards Cas as if somehow Cas would hear it.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 40
Kudos: 139





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Taylor Swift for writing such an exquisite Destiel album and releasing it in good time during SPN season 16. 
> 
> Me writing fic for my comfort ship from when I was 15? More likely than you'd think. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy!

This is a brief Table of Contents. Fic starts in the next chapter! Thank you.

Feel free to hop around and read these in any order. Only a few are related to each other, and even ones that are can be read alone :) The table of contents includes a brief overview of each one-shot, whether it's more angst or fluff, and whether it's AU or Canon Compliant (CC) 

Chapter 2. **willow** : Cas gets ice from a motel ice machine and tries not to watch Dean sleep. Light Angst. CC.

Chapter 3. **champagne problems** : Continuation of s15e03 (contains spoilers). Aftermath of Deancas breakup. Light Angst. CC.

Chapter 4. **gold rush** : Jealous Cas tries to stop Dean from flirting with a barista while they work a case. Light Angst. CC.

Chapter 5. **'tis the damn season** : A case at a corporate Christmas party requires Dean and Cas to pretend they're a couple. Fluff. AU/CC

Chapter 6. **tolerate it** : Cas rides a bus and talks to a stranger while running away from the bunker. Angst/fluff. CC.

Chapter 7. **no body, no crime** : Alt/hbo Supernatural AU. Dark and gritty. Red lights through the fog. Angst. AU.

Chapter 8. **happiness** : Fix-it for episode 15x18 (Castiel's confession). Very fluffy. CC-->AU.

Chapter 9. **dorothea** : Dean goes looking for Castiel after finishing the case in the bar alone. He does not recognize Cas when he finds him. Light angst to fluff. Kinda CC.

Chapter 10. **coney island** : Twenty years ago, Dean and Cas were in love. Now, Dean has come back to say he's sorry for leaving, but it may be too late. Angst with happy ending. AU.

Chapter 11. **ivy** : It's the morning of Dean's wedding, and Castiel, the best man, is not at all in favor of the union. Angst. AU.

Chapter 12. **cowboy like me** : Dean flirts with a cashier, and for once, Cas finds that he doesn't mind. Fluff. Mostly CC.

Chapter 13. **long story short** : Castiel struggles to climb back up a cliff face in time to save the only thing he's always fought for. Angst. Mostly AU. 

Chapter 14. **marjorie** : "Ever since the mark made Cas go crazy, ever since I had to bury him in a Ma'lak box." Angst. Alternate CC.

Chapter 15. **closure** : Sam stumbles across secret letters and realizes that his brother's feeling for Cas may be more complicated than he'd thought. Light angst. Canon divergent.

Chapter 16. **evermore** : Castiel is wary of allowing Dean to help him after he's hurt on a hunt (ft. Cas accidentally bursts some light bulbs). Angst to fluff. AU/CC. 

I hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://infinate-sky.tumblr.com/) !


	2. willow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 1: willow
> 
> Could be canon compliant; happens somewhere in season 4 or 5. Dean, Cas and Sam spend the night in a motel between hunts. Cas gets ice from an ice machine and tries not to watch Dean sleep.

> Head on the pillow, I could feel you sneakin' in  
>  As if you were a mythical thing  
>  Like you were a trophy or a champion ring  
>  But there was one prize I'd cheat to win
> 
> The more that you say, the less I know  
>  Wherever you stray, I follow  
>  I'm begging for you to take my hand  
>  Wreck my plans, that's my man
> 
> -Taylor Swift, willow 

  


* * *

  
Humans found it odd, apparently, when Cas stood and stared at them for hours at a time. Unfortunately, at the moment, there wasn’t really anything else for Cas to do. The motel room that Sam and Dean had rented was too small for Cas to go anywhere that wouldn’t point him staring in their direction. He’d sat himself on a chair in the corner—sitting was probably slightly less odd than standing. Cas still watched Dean. He didn’t understand how more humans didn’t want to leave their attention on one another for hours at a time; they were always moving, onto the next thing. Cas could watch Dean all day. 

The last bits of daylight withdrew slowly through the white curtains across the window, casting the two beds deeper into darkness. Sam, on his bed against the far wall, remained motionless. He'd fallen into an unmoving sleep shortly after his head hit the pillow, and Cas was certain that he would awake well rested. Dean, however, continued to move. He would toss his arm onto the pillow over his head, stay still for a few breaths, then turn over to lie the other way. His legs tangled in the blankets, then untangled and disappeared beneath them once more. His breaths were uneven. 

Dean’s head turned to the side wildly, his closed eyes tightening. He moaned unhappily, his mouth forming a grimace, then he turned around onto his other side. Dean’s hand clutched his blanket tight enough to whiten his knuckles. From the way that his muscles were tensed, he was going to wake even up more tired than he’d been before falling asleep. 

Cas was on his feet before he realized what he was doing. He held his hand in front of him, towards Dean’s bed, towards Dean’s own outstretched hand where he’d dropped it beside himself. With just one press of his fingers against Dean’s forehead, Cas could relax him. He wanted to do it; his fingers crunched into a loose fist and opened up once more while he struggled to keep his feet where they were. 

No matter how long and hard the day’s hunt had been, no matter what new monsters they’d have to face tomorrow, Dean would never let Cas help him like that. It wasn’t what Cas was there for, not really. He could heal their battle wounds when it was the difference between life or death, but something like this, something that was more for pleasure than necessity, there was no way Dean would allow it. 

Dean was not the type of person to let others help him, and Cas wouldn’t humiliate himself by asking when he knew he’d be turned down. 

And yet, Cas’s traitorous hands still itched to offer their help. The back of his knuckles was begging to shimmer gold: the beginnings of his grace coming to the surface in preparation for being used. He shoved the hand into the pocket of his trench coat. 

Cas turned away from Dean’s bed, stepping back and pivoting to face the opposite direction. He nearly hit his knee against the back wall. He touched one hand to the side to steady himself, resting it atop the small counter top/sink/TV stand combo which was the only raised surface in the room. Cas’s eyes were caught by the silver glimmer of their empty ice bucket, pushed to the back of the counter. Sam’s voice ran through his head, complaining that Dean hadn’t gotten ice before he’d gotten ready for bed, meaning that they wouldn’t have any in the morning. 

_“What the Hell would we need ice for Sammy?”_ Dean had asked, brushing his teeth with the bathroom door open. 

Sam hadn’t answered, and while Cas also couldn’t come up with any reason why they’d need ice in the morning, he grabbed hold of the metal bucket and slipped out the door with the intention of filling it up. Anything to put some space between him and everything that he couldn’t do. 

He closed the door softly behind himself. Outside, a sharp gust of wind cut through him, rushing like a current under the motel’s awning. Surely, this kind of wind would make a human cold. He would need to make sure that Dean wore his coat when they left in the morning. 

Cas hugged the metal bucket against his chest and started down along the side of the building. Each room that he passed had its curtains drawn and its lights out. He could sense the souls inside each room, sometimes one, usually two. None as bright nor as strong as Dean’s; none even close. 

By the time Cas realized that he wasn’t entirely certain how he was meant to get ice for the bucket, he’d run into a large white machine with multiple large labels marking it as “ICE.” Some humans must not know where to get ice from, either, then. The motel had decided they would need to make it as easy to spot as possible. 

The gesture made Castiel feel better, slightly less antsy. He knew—he _knew_ —that there were human things that he didn’t understand. He could see it in the way that Sam’s mouth would drop slightly open, and in the way that Dean’s eyes would crinkle at the sides. From their reactions, he could always tell when he’d done something odd, although he could hardly ever figure out what. But this ice machine, Castiel could do that right, because it had been marked out to be easy and simple. Here, now, he could do something the way that the humans would do it. The way that Dean would do it. 

With the bucket still hugged against his chest and held there with one arm, Castiel used his other hand to pull open the heavy door to the ice box. A tumble of many, many ice cubes and a waft of frozen air greeted him from inside. He used the bucket like a scoop, filling it nearly to the top. The sides of the ice bucket became cold to the touch almost immediately, and the sides began to grow slippery with condensation. 

He took a step back once he’d finished, letting the door to the ice box drop closed with a thump. The ice bucket fell from Cas’s hand seconds later, clanging against the concrete. It had slipped out of his fingers, urged on by the ripple of the closing door. Cas kneeled to the ground, shoving the spilled ice back into the bucket until it was nearly as full as it had been before. He straightened up and held his hand over the top of the bucket. 

A warm golden glow lit up the ice in the bucket, turning each into a glowing sun as Cas used his grace to ensure that the ice was clean and sanitary so that it would not poison Dean and Sam. He closed his hand up, the world falling dark once more, and trudged back to their room. He kept the ice bucket held tight to him as he walked. Humans, he was sure, also dropped their ice sometimes. 

Dean was still restless upon Cas’s return. The angel placed the newly full (and newly sanitized) ice onto the counter and retreated back into his corner. He pulled the sides of his trench coat forwards as he dropped into his seat. His gaze flicked immediately over to Dean’s body, twisted in his blankets. 

Dean’s hair lay golden brown against his white pillow case, sticking in all directions from his ceaseless turning. Cas brought his hand to his own hair, running his finger up from the root, pretending he was touching Dean’s hair instead. Dean’s hair would be softer, lighter. It wasn’t rough and thick like Cas’s, or rather, like Jimmy Novak’s. 

Cas set his elbow on the arm rest, and bent his head so that his fingers could run easily through his own hair. He watched Dean, unblinking. He made himself breath at the same rhythm as the rise and fall of Dean’s chest. He pulled his hand from his hair, tracing it down his neck and onto his own collarbone atop his clothing. He imagined Dean’s skin beneath his hand, how it would be warm and smooth. 

As if the thought had burned him, Cas pulled his hand quickly away from himself. He leaned forwards, setting his forearms onto his knees, and forced himself to remember Heaven’s plan. He was amazed by how little, in that moment, he cared to follow their orders or to listen to their warnings. Heaven already suspected that Cas was growing too faithful to Dean.

Cas closed his eyes, gauging the respective loyalties inside of him, and trying to sense if he could commit himself fully to Heaven. Overwhelmingly, all he could think of was Dean. His soul, which illuminated his side of the room, shone on unhelpfully. 

Dean turned over in bed loudly, moaning indistinguishable words into the pillow before settling in again. Because of how he’d turned, he lay facing away from Sam, towards the wall. He’d pushed himself onto one side of the bed, leaving a large empty space in front of him. 

Cas couldn’t help himself from rising slowly to his feet. He probably could have held back from stepping up to Dean’s bed, but he didn’t. He should have stopped his knee from lifting and coming to rest against the mattress. Heaven’s orders circled like vultures above Cas’s head. Dean’s lips, slightly open against his pillow, silenced the orders with dizzying ease. 

Looking at Dean, really looking at him from so close, brought Cas down from the precipice that he usually balanced atop of, and centered his mind. For the moment, he existed only here, in their cramped, dirty motel room. In the soft night hours, surrounded by the rhythmic breathing and still air. The mattress where Cas’s knee pressed against it sunk gently downwards, as if it was urging him forwards. 

Cas leaned his head to the side so that his face aligned with Dean’s. He slid his knee away from himself, farther down the bed, so that his hip could slowly, slowly touch down onto the mattress. Nothing made a noise. Nothing moved. Cas lowered his head until it hovered inches from the pillow. 

Cas’s eyes strained from how wide he held them open as he tried to see everything. Each freckle and line on Dean’s face was so important, and deserved to be catalogued in Cas’s memory. His body tense, Cas lifted one hand and hovered it over Dean’s own, splayed beside him atop the blankets. Just one touch, just long enough for Cas to know if touching Dean would be as lovely as he imagined. 

Cas left his hand hovering less than an inch above Dean’s, unable to drop in the rest of the way, and returned his gaze once more to Dean’s face. Dean’s eyelashes hung delicately towards his cheeks, the shadows elongating them, darkening the circles below his eyes and the dips of his cheek bones. Even now that he’d stilled, he didn’t, as Cas would have hoped, look peaceful. The worry line between his eyebrows remained ever present. His lips were tense, too. 

Cas tentatively moved his hand away from where he’d almost touched Dean’s fingers, and stilled it in front of Dean’s face, instead. He let the power seep through his palm weakly, to ensure that the golden light didn’t become bright enough to awake either human. With the help of his grace, Cas pushed everything calm and peaceful that he could imagine towards Dean. He pictured long, empty highways and Dean’s beloved Impala; he thought of lazy days spent watching old western movies. When Cas ran out of things that Dean would like, he imagined his own peace, and pressed that into Dean as well. 

As the last of the gold light dissipated into the air, Cas’s hand dropped onto the bed and he let his head fall forwards, recovering. He’d given Dean all that he could manage, and his grace would need a moment to recover. He hoped that Dean’s sleep had become slightly more restful, his dreams just a touch more pleasant. 

Without raising his gaze from the blankets, Cas began to move off of the bed. His attention snapped to his own hand. Something warm and solid had pressed on top of it. 

“Cas…?” Dean’s eyes, half-open, trained slowly upwards. 

“I’m-” Cas mumbled. He’d been caught, and like the idiot that he was, he hadn’t thought to come up with any excuse. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Cas pulled his hand away from beneath Deans, and it hurt like an angel blade to the heart. He started to push himself off the bed. 

“Cas,” Dean repeated. He’d pushed himself up to his elbow, and seemed much more awake than he had only seconds ago. “Where're you going?” 

That wasn’t the reaction that Cas had been expecting after being caught sneaking onto Dean’s bed. He would have expected yelling, maybe, or no words and tense space kept between them for days. In his surprise, Cas nearly fell from the bed. Catching himself, he moved shakily to standing. His hand darted forwards to fix Dean’s blanket where it had been tugged down, and Dean caught Cas’s wrist. His grasp around it was tight, as if he actually wanted Cas to stay. 

“Are you tired? You can stay here, man. I don’t mind.” Dean’s eyes were steady on Cas’s, and this time, it was Cas who had to look away. 

“I don’t know-” the more Dean spoke, the less Cas knew what was happening. How could… 

Movement from the other bed caught Cas’s attention. Sam had turned over, and was rubbing at his eyes with one hand. He appeared to be waking up. Cas pulled his hand from Dean’s grasp and took a step back. There was no way Dean would want Sam to see that they were so close. In the morning, Dean would be better off to not remember, and to not have anyone else remember, either. 

Cas left. All Dean would hear would be a flap of his wings, and then he’d be free to forget all about what had happened. Cas took himself to where Dean couldn't follow, stepping quickly through the gates of Heaven and continuing towards the offices of his superiors. Right now, Heaven had to win his loyalty. There was no other possibility.

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always greatly appreciated. <3


	3. champagne problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 2: champagne problems 
> 
> Canon compliant, picks up from end of 15x3 with the second section some time around 15x6. includes SPOILERS for the episodes. 
> 
> Dean copes with (read: represses) his feelings after Cas's goodbye.

> Your mom's ring in your pocket  
>  My picture in your wallet  
>  Your heart was glass, I dropped it  
>  Champagne problems  
>  …  
>  You had a speech, you're speechless  
>  Love slipped beyond your reaches  
>  And I couldn't give a reason  
>  Champagne problems  
> 
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, champagne problems  
> 

* * *

  


“Jack’s dead. Chuck’s gone. You and Sam have each other.” Cas turned his head first, let his body follow. He brought his gaze level with Dean’s for a second, then looked to the ground instead, as if looking at Dean was too much for him. As if it was Dean who was standing there with betrayal on his tongue. Dean held his breath, waiting for the final blow. Cas spoke to the ground as he finished. 

“I think it’s time for me to move on.” 

After a beat, he lifted his eyes, finally, painstakingly, to lock with Dean’s. The second that passed felt all at once like an eternity and like it was gone before it had begun. All too soon, Cas began to walk away. The desperate, emotional part of Dean’s mind cried out for him to say something, anything, to stop Cas from leaving. The larger, stronger part of his mind pushed the crying part down. The stronger part was made of anger, indignation, and fear. 

Cas’s retreat was that of a surrender, no fight, no yelling. There had been times when Dean, also out of anger, had pushed Cas against the wall, yelled at him, and confronted their disagreements with violence. That had been for mistakes much smaller than this, than killing Mary. This time, Dean’s anger only made him silent. It rendered him speechless. 

Cas’s footfalls sounded at the base of the stairs, the echoing of shoes on metal, and Dean knew that it was his last chance to stop him. If he didn’t get up, push himself away from the table that supported his weight and march himself across the bunker, then Cas would reach the door and he’d turn the handle and he would be gone. 

Dean tightened his grasp on the edge of the table at either side of him. He closed his eyes and turned his head as if shielding himself from a blow. Cas’s footsteps paused, like he was giving Dean one more chance to call him back. Dean dropped his shoulders in defeat; from the top of the stairs, he heard the bunker’s door scrape open and a moment later thump against the doorframe as it closed back into place. Without Cas, the bunker immediately fell in on itself, trapping Dean in layers of rubble and debris. 

Except that it didn’t, because everything was fine. Cas hardly even lived there, and he frequently came and left. Why did this time feel so different? Why had Cas leaving now felt like he’d stolen something important along with him? 

Dean pushed himself shakily away from the table and clapped his hands together to hear a noise that wasn’t his heart beating in his ears. 

“Sammy?” He called out into the empty space. No answer came. The walls pressed in on Dean as he walked through the hallway, each empty room he passed like the graves of all the people he hadn’t been able to keep by his side. 

He stumbled into his own room, fell onto his own bed, and turned in one smooth motion to force his fist into the wall above his headboard. The impact of his skin against the wall worked to clear his mind, yet unfortunately, the thoughts that fell away in his new clarity were not the ones that he would have liked to see go. 

Dean brought his hand back towards himself, and flipped over to lay his head on his pillow. Staring at the ceiling, Dean’s memory supplied him with replay after replay of Cas’s face as he’d turned to look one last time. Cas’s eyes, always large and sad, had appeared especially sad, especially sorry. His eyebrows had been turned up, as if he’d been asking a question. 

If Cas had been asking if he should stay, then Dean had certainly led him to believe the opposite. And it was true—Dean would be happy to get a couple of days away from Cas. The guy had blown down every one of Dean’s expectations and then some, and not in a good way. What Cas had done, it brought his judgement into question. He’d put too many things above everyone’s safety. 

But at the same time, that didn’t mean that Dean wanted Cas to be gone forever. Dean hadn’t been able to give Cas a reason to stay. That didn’t mean that there wasn’t one. The problem was that, while all of the reasons for Cas’s leaving were easy to list, the reasons why Dean wanted him to stay revolved more around some deep pulling deep inside of him. He didn’t want Cas to go because he just didn’t. 

At the end of the day, Dean forced himself to remember as he closed his eyes and curled himself onto his side, leaving or staying was ultimately Cas’s decision. If he had wanted to stay with Dean, Cas would still be here. Obviously, he did not.

  


* * *

  


Pillow shoved against the wall to support his head, pyjamas and housecoat on, TV showing an episode of Scooby Doo: life was good. Dean threw a piece of chocolatey cereal up in the air and let it fall into his mouth. He smiled into the taste of sugar and powder. Outside, up the stairs and past the warded walls of the bunker, life continued. For others, that is; life continued for others. Dean happened to be one of only two informed people sitting on the knowledge that God had them all set up in his own little mouse trap and nothing that anyone did even mattered. 

As such, Dean was taking the opportunity to do what he wanted to do. If nothing mattered, then why would he make the effort to work all day? Watching TV in his pyjamas was fun. Dean Winchester deserved fun. 

So God was back in the game, and everything that Dean had ever done or would do in his life had only been fulfilling his role in God’s favourite TV show. Nothing mattered. He was fine, otherwise. He’d gotten over Castiel’s departure. Dean was fine. 

On the TV, Fred suggested that the gang split up to look for clues. Shaggy and Scooby circled through the creepy mansion, conversing with each other. The volume was too quiet for Dean to hear them speaking over his laughter at their corny jokes. 

Dean balanced the half-empty box of cereal on his lap and reached for the remote. It had been pushed down his bed, and he had to lean sideways to reach it. Finally touching his fingers against its cool plastic meant that he had to turn his body towards the side, and the cereal box toppled over, sending Cocoa Puffs sprawling over the blankets. On the TV, shaggy and Scooby darted from room to room as a non-frightening ghoul chased after them. 

“Aw, man,” Dean mumbled. He pressed his pointer finger solidly into the volume button for a few seconds, then collected all of the spilled cereal that he could easily reach into his hands. He debated for a moment, before shrugging and spilling the cereal from his hands into his mouth. His blankets were clean enough. 

He had just gotten comfortable against the pillow once more when the door to his bedroom was pushed open. Sam welcomed himself into the room, stepping swiftly over to Dean’s bed and using the remote to shut off the TV. 

“Hey!” Dean said through a mouthful of Cocoa Puffs. “I was watching that!”

“I know Dean. That’s what you’ve been doing all day.” A note of judgement coloured Sam’s voice. Dean glared back at him with an expression that he hoped conveyed all of his older-brother authority. 

“What do you want from me, man? God’s back. How the Hell are we supposed to fight God?” Dean placed the cereal box onto the bed beside him and lunged towards Sam, trying to snatch the remote back. Sam held it up high above his head. 

“We do what we always do. We figure it out.” Sam took a step back, away from Dean’s attempts to snatch back the remote. “I don’t think that’s all this is about, though.” 

Dean groaned and waved Sam’s worry away with his hand. He pulled the cereal box back towards him, flipping it around to look at the back. “Hey, did you know they still put jokes on these things? Listen to this-” 

“Dean!” Sam’s exasperation cut off Dean’s joke. “I came in here for a reason.” 

“Oh.” Dean raised his gaze towards Sam and scanned his face for the signs of excitement or anticipation that usually showed when he’d found them a case. “Did you find something?” 

“No, not that. I’ve actually been, uh,” Sam placed the TV remote back down on Dean’s bed and drew his fingers into his jeans pocket. He withdrew an ID card and held it towards Dean. “I’ve been cleaning out-” 

“This is Cas’s.” Dean pulled the card from Sam’s fingers and held it up in front of himself. Castiel’s face stared back at him from the small image on the left side of the card. Sam had handed him Cas’s fake FBI badge. Dean turned it around in his palm, smiling softly as he remembered Cas’s first time using it, holding it upside down. Dean’s smile fell as he turned back to Sam. “Why are you giving this to me?” 

“As I was saying,” Sam continued carefully, “I’ve been cleaning out Cas’s room. He didn’t keep many possessions. Actually,” Sam motioned to the badge, “that was about the only thing there. I thought maybe you’d want to keep it.” 

“Do what you want, man.” Dean tossed the ID to the end of his bed. It got caught in a current of air, and flip-flopped over the bed to land instead on the floor. Sam watched it falling with his lips pursed. 

“You know, Dean, it’s ok if you-” 

Dean drew his eyebrows together and looked at Sam with all of the uncaringness that he could muster. If Dean didn’t succeed in stopping him, Sammy was going to try and say something all mushy about how he was allowed to feel sad that Cas left, or whatever. But it wasn’t Dean’s place to feel anything. Cas was a free man, he could do what he wanted. He was under no obligation to stay where Dean was. 

“Just because he left,” Sam took a step to the side, and reached towards the ground. He straightened back up with Cas’s badge in his hand. “Just because Cas left, doesn’t mean that he isn’t going to come back.” 

Dean shrugged, gluing his eyes to the dark TV screen. Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Dean knew that he wanted to say more, to turn this into a chick-flick moment. Luckily, he thought better of it. He placed Cas’s badge onto Dean’s bedside table, and closed the door softly behind him when he left. 

Relieved to finally be alone again, Dean flicked the TV back on. His eyes kept straying, for whatever reason, towards Cas’s picture on his ID card. Dean flipped the card over. He forced himself to pay attention to the TV. If the first person he thought of when the jokes made him laugh was the same person whose ID badge he was steadfastly ignoring, that was only a coincidence.

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas's side of this is now posted in ch.6 :)


	4. gold rush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 3: gold rush 
> 
> Jealous Cas tries to stop Dean from flirting with a barista while they work a case.

> I don't like a gold rush, gold rush  
>  I don't like anticipatin' my face in a red flush  
>  I don't like that anyone would die to feel your touch  
>  Everybody wants you  
>  Everybody wonders what it would be like to love you  
>    
>  \- Taylor Swift, gold rush  
> 

* * *

  
A girl had gone missing. Cas knew from the picture of her face, the one from the website that Dean had printed off. He hadn’t seen the picture because of any desire on Dean’s part to show him; no, the only time Cas had gotten to look at it had been a quick glance as Dean had folded it up and slid it into his wallet. 

Sam had been caught up helping a few other hunters out with a pack of werewolves near the bunker. So Cas, like an afterthought, had been asked to accompany Dean with the missing girl’s case. Dean had asked him to go as if he hadn’t really cared whether Cas would say yes or no. 

Of course, Cas had said yes anyways. It wasn’t often that he got to ride shotgun in the Impala. The width of the car was easier to notice from the front seat than it was from the back. This close to the windshield, Cas could see the whole road out in front of them; he could see the darkening skyline as if it were being painted with deeper and deeper shades before his eyes. The road whipped like a cement snake underneath them. 

Cas leaned forwards farther towards the impala’s windshield. He wanted to watch the road disappear beneath the front tires. One of his legs was moving up to get underneath him, to push him further forwards, when he felt pressure against his shoulder. 

He snapped his gaze to the touch, and found Dean’s hand holding him in place. A look to Dean’s face revealed the driver’s attention still glued forwards. 

“Cas, man,” Dean said towards the windshield. “Keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.” 

“My hands and feet _are_ inside the car, Dean,” Cas said, tilting his head as he considered what Dean could have meant besides the obvious. 

“I know, buddy, I mean,” Dean’s hand pulled away from Cas’s shoulder and returned to its place around the steering wheel. “I mean no boot marks on Baby’s leather, capisce?” 

“Yes, I capisce.” Cas sat back against his seat, resting his hands in his lap. Perhaps, now that they were getting closer, Dean would give Cas some more info on the case. It would be hard to be helpful when all that Cas really knew was the tagline. “Where are we going?” 

“The girl was last seen leaving Freezie’s. We’re going to check it out, see if we can’t round up a few witnesses.” 

Cas turned to look towards Dean. The driver was still very diligently keeping his eyes on the road, and each car that passed them from the opposite direction alighted his side-profile golden-yellow. He looked like a movie star, which was something that Cas knew about because Dean had made him memorize a few of Dean’s favourite celebrities. 

“Freezie’s,” Cas repeated. He tried to think of a place he’d heard of before with the same name. “What’s ‘Freezie’s’?” 

Freezie’s, it turned out, was the name of a single-room bar on an otherwise vacant road. Dean had his pick of parking spots as he brought the Impala to a rest; the bar was surrounded by a road’s width of gravel on all sides, with cars and trucks parked in an entirely unorganized pattern all around. The crickets chirping and other soft such night noises were drowned out entirely by a pumping beat emitting from the building. Cas assumed it was music, although it sounded more uncomfortable that any music Dean had played for him. 

“Alright! Here we go.” Dean said, grinning as he walked around the side of the car. He thumped Cas on the back as he passed, and led them towards the bar. Cas’s shoulders tensed, and he pulled absently at his tie. He followed Dean. 

Inside, unfortunately, they were greeted by more than just the music and the lights. Cas squinted his eyes and looked down. Beside him, Dean’s grin widened and his chin tilted up confidently. A woman with light brown hair pulled up into a high ponytail moved towards them. 

“Hey there. Looking for something?” She asked. Cas thought to answer her, but her attention was undoubtedly pointed towards Dean, who, for his part, rolled his shoulders back and gave her a sideways smile. 

“I hope so. Anyone here know Kacy Baker?”

The woman’s brow dipped momentarily, and then her face returned to the confident smile it easily inhabited. “That would be me. I’m her sister.” 

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Dean’s hand twitched towards his pocket, as if from the habit of showing his fake FBI badge as he asked that question. 

“Buy a drink first, then we’ll talk.” The woman gestured back behind her towards the bar. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Dean said. He’d moved half way across the bar before Cas realized that they were actually going to sit down and have a drink. Cas stepped into the building from the doorway, and caught up to Dean. 

The barista placed them in the center of the bar. The barstool Cas sat on was stiff and squeaky if he tried to turn; he’d mistakenly tried to rest his elbows against the bar top, and now the sleeves of his trench coat were sticky. The bear bottle that had ended up in front of him seemed to taunt him. 

To Cas’s side, the woman leaned herself over the bar. She placed a shot glass of something caramel-coloured before Dean, and crossed her arms over her chest to watch him drink it. 

“What’d you think, Cowboy?” 

Dean took the drink all in one go, then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Hey, not bad for a little no-name bar like this.” 

“‘Little no-name bar’? You’ve got to be joking.” The barista flipped a clean glass from the stack behind her, and filled it up with clear liquid from a tall bottle. “For that, you’ll be buying me a drink.” 

“Alright, sure” Dean put his hand palm-down onto the bar. “So you’re telling me this is popular with the locals then, this place?”

“I may be biased,” the barista sipped at her drink, eyes trained on Dean’s, “but yeah, I’d say so. Only thing better than the booze in this place is the patrons.” 

“What do ya’ mean by that?” Dean’s hand trailed over the bar towards Cas, and Cas felt himself leaning towards it. Dean didn’t reach for him though; his fingers found Cas’s untouched beer bottle and pulled it over to himself. 

“Occasionally,” the barista said smoothly, “men tumble through those doors lookin’ like they made a wrong turn on the way back to Heaven.”

Cas’s attention, which had been straying away from Dean and the barista out of disinterest, snapped back towards them. “You’ve talked with angels here?” Perhaps there was a door to Heaven close by that Cas wasn’t remembering properly. He’d gotten so used to using the one near the bunker. 

“Huh?” The barista’s tone shifted as she looked to Cas. She frowned slightly, as if noticing him for the first time. 

“Don’t mind my friend, here.” Dean patted Cas roughly on the shoulder. “He doesn’t get out much.” 

“Dean, if she’s seen the angels here then maybe they have something to do with the missing girl.” Cas tried to make Dean listen, but Dean seemed to have forgotten that they were at the bar for a reason. 

“It’s ok, Cas. We’ll talk about it later.” He nodded his head dismissively before turning back towards the barista. 

And the barista… why was she looking at Dean like that? Her eyes tracked his every movement, returning often to his lips and his hands. She had pulled a strand of hair from her ponytail forwards so that it framed her cheek, and she let it sway forwards and then back as she leaned over to pour drinks. Her cheeks were slightly pinker than they had been before. 

Humans looked like that when they… Cas tried to think. His memory supplied him unhelpfully with an instance last week, when he and Dean had been waiting while Sam paid for their food. They’d stopped for burgers after completing a case. Cas had offered to leave, as their work was done and he didn’t eat, anyways. 

Dean had suggested Cas stay. Throughout the meal Sam had made passing jokes about crashing their date, which Dean had pointedly laughed off. At the booth where they’d sat to eat, Sam had been alone on his side, leaving Cas and Dean to squeeze together on the opposite bench. Seeing that there wasn’t much room, Cas had offered, again, to leave. Dean had asked him again to stay. 

That second time, with his body mere inches away from Cas and his hands too busy holding a burger to cover his face, Cas had watched a slight red colour slowly seep into Dean’s cheeks. Sam had failed to cover a laugh and Dean had kicked him under the table and the moment had promptly ended. But that had to have been something different. There must been many reasons why humans blushed. 

The barista returned to stand once more before them, having somewhat recovered her composure while serving drinks to another table. “Can I get you anything else?” 

Dean’s expression resembled too much the lazy grin that he employed before asking off-topic questions for him to have remembered the case. Cas stepped in to get them back on track himself. “Where did you last see your sister?” 

“Oh, uh,” once again, the barista seemed to have just remembered Cas’s existence. “Two nights ago? Maybe three? She lives with our mom a town over.” By the end of her speaking, the barista had turned back towards Dean. 

“Did she say where-” Dean cut Cas off with a wave of his hand. 

“All in good time, Cas. All in good time. Now,” he smiled brightly at the barista, “how can I get you to make me another one of those Gladiator shots?” 

“Dean, the case.” Cas said slowly, the words stiff. He moved his face closer to Dean, watching his eyes for a hint that somewhere in there Dean was listening to him. Any sort of sign that Dean had brought Cas along because he’d wanted him around. 

The only thing visible in Dean’s eyes was the blatant way that he blinked them closed to avoid Cas’s gaze. He turned his head back to the barista. 

“One shot, or two?” She asked, following the line of conversation from before Cas had spoken. She placed a first shot by Dean’s hand, and let her fingers slid over his skin as she pulled her own hand away. “And if you want two, be sure to tell me now. I’m off in five.” 

“Gonna leave me so soon?” 

“I said no more shots. The rest is up to you.” She winked over her shoulder as she turned to get a drink for someone else. 

Dean licked his lips, and dropped his gaze to the drink she had poured for him. Cas slid off of his bar stool and fixed his trench coat around his shoulders. Dean only noticed him when he started to walk away. 

“Cas? Where are you going?” 

“I have duties to Heaven. If we aren’t working on the case, then I’m wasting my time here with you.” 

“You’re wasting your… with me?” Dean’s fingers slid away from the still-full shot glass, and he turned on his bar stool towards Cas. For a second, Cas thought that Dean would ask him to stay, like he had at the restaurant. Instead, the barista returned and asked Dean what he was waiting for. Dean turned around and picked up the shot, drinking it under the mesmerized gaze of the barista. 

She watched him with undivided attention, her hands collected in front of her and her lips slightly open. She watched him like she wanted to give him all of the shots in the world, if they would make him happy. Like the shots were filled with gold, or bottled laughter, or anything else that would drive the fear and trauma from Dean’s tired eyes. 

She watched him like Cas watched him. And in that moment Cas realized two things. 

He loved Dean Winchester. 

And so did, apparently, the entire world population. 

Cas turned sharply and walked out of the bar. The cool night moved in through his layers of clothing as he stomped over the gravel parking lot and passed by the Impala and finally started walking down along the side of the dark road. 

Soon, in a moment, he would use his wings to get far away from here. For now, the bite of the air and the weight on his feet each time he stepped took up the part of his brain that he knew, without distraction, would go back to thinking about Dean. 

Cas had been doomed from the moment he’d found Dean in Hell, even if he hadn’t known it then. As if it hadn’t already been reckless enough to fall so hard for a human, he’d just so happened to pick one who apparently had all of his own species neatly in the palm of his hand. 

And to think—Cas breathed out a rough laugh—to think that Dean may have wanted Cas around for any reason other than his help. As Cas spent time wondering what he meant to Dean, so did every human spend time thinking the same thing. Cas would be a fool to consider the future where Dean picked him out of every other countless option. 

It was a waste of time to try.

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The follow-up to this chapter is now available in chapter 9: dorothea.


	5. 'tis the damn season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 4: 'tis the damn season 
> 
> A case at a corporate Christmas party requires Dean and Castiel to pretend that they're a couple, "like, romantically a couple."

> We could call it even  
>  You could call me "babe" for the weekend  
>  'Tis the damn season, write this down  
>  I'm stayin' at my parents' house  
>  And the road not taken looks real good now
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, ‘tis the damn season

  


* * *

  


“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sam loitered by Dean’s side, looking down at the suit jacket and dress shirt that Dean had laid out on his bed. “I mean, you and Cas-” 

“Are going to go in there, chop some heads off of some vamps, and laugh about it over drinks tonight.” 

Sam glanced sideways at Dean. “You know, I could-” He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs. “I could go with Cas. He and I aren’t as close, so it might be easier to-”

“I’m fine, Sam.” For whatever reason, Sam had decided that Dean was going to have some sort of problem taking Cas as his plus one. Obviously, Dean was perfectly capable. “Besides, out of the two of us, who looks more likely to have been invited to a swanky Christmas party, huh?” He nudged Sam in the ribs with his elbow. “Huh?” 

“Ok, cut it out.” Sam stepped away, out of reach. “Just, let me know if the… situation gets out of your control.” The almost apologetic look Sam used to accompany his words was enough to send a spark of indignation through Dean’s veins. Why the Hell did Sam think Dean deserved his pity? 

“The _situation_ is perfectly in my control! Always has been, always will be.” 

“What situation? The vampire nest? I’m sure you don’t need to worry, Dean. The tip said that it was only a few vampires.” Cas’s low voice sounded from close beside them. Dean turned immediately, tugging his hands behind his back as if he had something to hide, to face the angel. 

“You ready to go, man?” Dean asked. As always, Cas was wearing his tan trench coat over a full suit, which would work fine for the party’s dress code. That was a bonus, as Dean wasn’t sure he could get Cas to change clothes if he’d tried.

“Dean, have you told Cas yet?” Sam prodded.

“Told me what?” 

Dean bit his lower lip. Having Cas here, in person, slowed his thoughts on the matter. He needed a moment to process. Cas watched him expectantly, his never-blinking gaze not really helping Dean’s thought process. 

“So uh, business party vamps, ya know?” 

Cas frowned slightly. “They are planning to attack a corporate event in the penthouse on the Grisley building downtown. Yes, I know.” 

“Good, he’s got the just of it.” Dean opened his hands to his sides, turning to face Sam. Sam narrowed his eyes. “Fine.” Dean tightened his jaw and pointed his gaze back towards Castiel. “The party, uh, it’s difficult to get an invitation to, so...” 

Again, Dean looked to Sam for an assist and immediately regretted it. This time, Sam’s apologetic look was back, joined now by something like humour. Dean wanted to slap the look off of his face. He continued talking instead. “Charlie managed to hack into the system and get us one invitation, but,” 

“But it’ll be safer if we go as a group.” Cas’s head was tilted to the side as he tried to read more information from Dean’s face. Dean squirmed under the scrutiny. 

“A group of two. Me and you. Sam’s not coming.” 

“Alright. Is that all you had to tell me?” 

“Yes,” Dean said quickly. 

“No,” Sam cut in. “No it’s not.” 

“Sammy,” Dean said, voice quiet as if he could speak without Cas hearing. 

“It won’t work if he doesn’t know. You tell him or I will.” 

Cas, coat disheveled and hair unruly, waited patiently, although his eyes did become more and more squinted as the silence grew between them. Finally, Dean cleared his throat. 

“It’s not a big deal or anything, but the invitation entitles us two entries if, uh” Dean pulled at his shirt collar. When had the room become stuffy? “If we go as a couple.” 

“A couple?” 

Of course Cas was going to make him spell it out. “Like, romantically a couple.” 

Cas’s eyes opened marginally wider, and he shifted his gaze to Sam as if checking him for signs that Dean was joking. After a moment, Cas replied, “that won’t be an issue.” 

Dean could have sworn that Cas’s cheeks had deepened just a touch towards red, but he was also sure that angels didn’t blush. Sam asked Dean to double check that he had their electronic invitation ready to go, and Dean assured him that of course he did, come on. 

After changing into his suit, and a silent ride in the Impala with Cas, the two arrived downtown. At least, Dean was pretty sure that he’d taken the right turns to get them down town. The street seemed to have transformed into a million tiny, colourful lights and decorations. Dean had to alternate watching the road and resting his eyes on Baby’s dark steering wheel so that he didn’t get dizzy as they parked. 

“What the Hell happened? It looks like Santa Claus threw up all over this place,” Dean said as he closed his door behind him. 

Cas waited on the sidewalk as Dean walked around the car to join him. His trench coat had somehow become even more rumpled from the car ride over; it was practically hanging off of him in bunches. Couldn’t Cas wave his hand and straighten it out, or something? 

“I believe these are decorations for Holiday Cheer, Dean,” Cas said matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Tis the season and all that.” Dean arrived beside Cas and his hands moved on to pull the tan material of Cas’s coat properly over his shoulders. What was the point of dressing up like some sort of an accountant if you weren’t gonna keep yourself presentable? “Still, though. The city could’a chosen some lights that don’t hurt your eyes when you look at them.” 

“I think they’re pretty.” Cas stood still, scanning his eyes over the Christmas lights as he waited for Dean to finish. The colours from the Christmas lights reflected in Cas’s blue eyes like stars from another planet, giving his whole face a youthful, wonderstruck glow. Perhaps Dean could grow to like the city’s holiday décor after all. 

“Excuse me, Sirs,” a woman’s voice called from the building behind them, “are you here for the Grisley Holiday party?” 

Dean whipped around, pulling his hands off of Cas. Cas followed his movement, keeping little space between them. 

“Yes,” Cas answered simply. He looped his arm around Dean’s and pulled them forwards towards where the woman was holding open a glass door. He pressed his body close to Dean’s, like a sideways hug. The woman watched them warmly. 

Cas was close enough for Dean to hear his breathing. Dean was overwhelmed by a whole new spinning sensation as he eyed the reflection of the Christmas lights in the glass door. He ended up passing his phone to Cas for the invitation, while Dean’s mind rebooted. Too many bright lights around him for him to think straight. 

The woman chattered at Cas as she led them through an equally decorated hallway and onto a shiny elevator. Dean registered bits and pieces. 

“With you two here, now, all of our attendees are present.” 

“I’m sorry if we made everyone wait,” Cas replied gruffly as the elevator began upwards. 

“Oh no, not at all! Most people arrived early. I wasn’t expecting to greet you at the door, but I just so happened to check as you arrived.” The woman paused as the elevator doors opened. Dean felt Cas’s arm in his pull as Cas began to move, but the woman stopped them. They still had many more floors to climb. 

“How did you know it was us?” Dean asked, coming back to himself. He realized he’d been leaning on Cas and quickly pulled himself away. Only the sides of their arms stayed together. If the vampires were onto them already… 

“Oh,” the woman said, leaning one dainty wrist against the elevator handrail. “The guest list specified that we were waiting for two gentlemen. I assumed, from the way you were standing, that you were the couple on the list.” 

_The couple on the list._ The easy smile sitting on the woman’s face did nothing to quell the drop of discomfort that hit Dean as she said the words. The elevator suddenly felt much smaller, and void of air. Dean couldn’t put enough space between himself and Castiel. 

Mercifully, the elevator bell chimed and the door opened once more. Not waiting to see if they’d made it to the right floor, Dean all but ran from the elevator and continued walking until he’d arrived in an empty, dark room by himself. 

He touched his belt under the material of his jacket, grounding himself with the feel of his knife hidden against him. From outside of the room, soft christmas music and many layers of conversation alluded to the party that Dean was meant to be circling. 

Oh, if Sammy could see him now. Dean had done the one thing that Sam had been worried about: let the fake relationship with Castiel throw him off of his game for the case. It wasn’t really that, though. No. Dean just wasn’t used to being, uh, in an office building like this. Stuffy, shiny things full of people who had nothing in common with him. Yes, that was why Dean had needed to get away. 

Dean shuffled towards the windowed-wall on the far side of the empty room. No lights were on inside, making the Christmas lights shining from outside glow even brighter. He pressed the backs of his hands to the cool glass. From above, the tendrils of decorative lights hanging between each tall building had a more uniform look than they had from the street. Dean could almost make out some sort of pattern to it all. 

He reached for his knife once more, this time freeing it from his belt and holding it loosely around in front of him, circling it in his hands. The silver of the blade caught the light like splotches of blood. 

The image of lights reflecting in Cas’s eyes forced its way into Dean’s thoughts violently, making him remember the fluttery feeling, like the urge to smile for no reason. It had been mere seconds, probably, since Cas had been close enough to share his body heat, and yet somehow Dean already wanted him back. He was sure that feeling only had to do with safety, and how he’d be better prepared to fight the vamps with backup. 

Careful footsteps alerted Dean to someone else’s presence in the room. He turned away from the window, brandishing his knife before him, ready to swing. 

“Oh, it’s just you,” Dean dropped the knife down, then took a second to conceal it on his person once more. He was slow to raise his gaze back to Castiel’s face. 

Cas stood in the doorway, lit from behind. His head was tilted to the side in an expression that Dean had learned to read as ‘fondly disappointed.’

“Got eyes on the vamps yet?” Dean took a lumbering step forwards, and bumped Cas on the shoulder with the palm of his hand. “Successful recon?” 

Cas’s ‘fond disappointment’ grew as he pursed his lips and tilted his head even farther. One of these days, he was gonna pull something in his neck, Dean was sure of it. 

“I have not identified any of the vampires yet, no. However, I’ve talked to many of the guests. People are wondering where you are.” 

Dean raised half of his mouth into a smug grin. “Well did you tell them that I was getting lucky? That’s a pretty good cover.” 

“No, Dean, I did not tell them that you were _getting lucky._ ” 

“Cas, it’s a corporate party. Yeah, there’ll be some prudes here and there, but I’m sure-” 

“It would be odd for me to suggest that you were having relations with someone else, as people here think we are together. Or did you forget the cover?” 

Dean’s mouth fell open despite himself. “Oh, yeah. A’ course.” He looked past Cas, through the doorway, then shifted his gaze towards his hands. “So, then-” 

“It is time to play ‘Deck the Spouse.’” 

“Excuse me?” 

Cas motioned with one hand behind himself. “A party game where one person decorates another with garland, lights, and plastic ornaments. Greg said that it is the highlight of the night.” 

“We’re not here for party games.” There was no way Dean was letting anyone get that close to him, especially not someone who couldn’t tell a human from a Christmas tree. 

“You said that it would be bad if the vampires suspected to be hunters before we identified them.” 

“Well, yeah. If they do, they could call for more to arrive and help them, or leave with hostages instead of attacking them here where we could stop it.” 

“And people are getting suspicious of us.” Although Cas didn’t include the _because of you_ to the end of his sentence, Dean could hear it there anyways. “If there is one thing the vamps won’t expect hunters to do… ” 

Dean sighed. He couldn’t believe that Cas was right. “It’s to play the damn party game.”

  


* * *

  


“You need to lift your hand a little higher, or the ornaments are going to slide off.” Cas used his elbow to lift Dean’s arm to a height at which the ornaments would stay in place. He’d used his elbow as his hands were busing untangling a twisted string of lights. 

“Maybe if you put the ornaments in a better place, then I wouldn't have to hold my arms out like a damn scarecrow,” Dean mumbled. Somehow, he’d drawn the short straw and taken the role of Christmas Tree. He didn’t even remember talking with Cas about the decision. Frickin’ angels. 

A quick glance around the room told Dean that he wasn’t the only one grumbling about their role in the game. The men and women in his position, decorated to varying degrees of madness by their partners, all wore expressions of loving exasperation. Well, probably loving. The woman beside Dean seemed less like she was joking about murdering her husband if he messed up her hair than Dean was really comfortable with. 

In the center of the long room, a rectangular table stood all decked out with treats and silver decorations. Tall, sparking feather-things stood up in off-white vases, and bejeweled napkins stood in neat little triangles. Dean had gotten a quick look at the table upon entering the room, but had been pulled into the decorating game before tasting anything. It was the tragedy of the evening. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said. He flicked his chin in the direction of the table. “Psst!” 

“Sh.” Cas said. His focus was undividedly on attempting to balance something on top of Dean’s head. “Stop moving. I’m giving you your star.” 

“An angel is placing a star atop my head,” Dean muttered to no one in particular. He did as he was told, holding himself as still as possible. After a few more subtle adjustments, Cas stepped back, both hands held up carefully. The slight weight of the star stayed in place on Dean’s head.

“Now, what did you want?” Cas asked as he used one finger to adjust the lights looped around Dean’s shoulders. 

“Pie, Cas.” 

Castiel rolled his eyes. “If I hear that star drop while I’m gone, I’m eating the pie myself.” 

He walked slowly back to the table, taking his sweet time, the bastard. Dean held his breath as he waited, using his thoughts to send threats to the star should it feel like making any attempt towards the ground. 

Cas idly did a loop of the table, coming back around to a certain pie and finally picking up a serving knife. With the knife in one hand, he froze. His back visibly stiffened, and his free hand lowered. Dean noticed the glint of Cas’s angel blade as he let it fall from his sleeve only a second before Cas was using it to slice someone’s head off. 

Dean lunged forwards, the star toppling from his head with a clash. He pulled his own knife free as he ran forwards. The vampires were easy to spot, now, having released their fangs; Dean’s quick count spotted five of them, six including the vamp that Cas had already killed. 

He arrived next to Cas just as the angel sliced the head from a second vampire. Dean blocked an attack at Cas from behind. The vampire grabbed Dean by the shoulder, pulling him forwards. Dean ducked out of its grasp and used his momentum to spring back up and cut its head from its shoulders. He killed his second one easily moments after. 

The crashing of breaking glass alerted Dean to movement behind him. A vamp had climbed up onto the table, knocking over one of the white vases. It showed its eerie teeth and poised to leap at Dean. Dean held his blade up in front of himself, and dug his heel into the ground, ready. 

Instead of jumping onto Dean, the vampire fell forwards awkwardly, landing on its forearms against the table, allowing Dean to quickly finish it off with a slice to the neck. Cas smiled at Dean from across the table, his bloody angel blade still up. 

So that was five dead… Dean took a step back, swiveling his head around. He spotted the last vamp across the room, trying to escape out the door. Many of the ornaments still clung to Dean’s arms; he slid one off, rolling it between his fingers before beaming it at the vamp’s head. The impact only stopped the thing for a moment, but it was enough time for Dean to reach it and introduce it to his knife. 

By the time Dean had returned to the main room, vampires disposed of, everyone was back to decorating each other as if nothing had happened. 

“I cleared it from their memories,” Cas supplied, noticing Dean’s surprise. “Everything is back how it should be.” 

“So we’re all good to go, then?” Dean finished wiping his knife clean, and quickly concealed it before any of the party goers noticed. 

“Unless you still want the-” 

“The pie!” Dean grinned, catching Cas by the hand as he walked on towards the table. ‘Now, tell me which one you were going to get me, and I’ll tell you how poor your taste is.” 

Cas raised their joined hands up slightly and gave Dean a questioning glance. 

“People here think we’re together,” Dean repeated Cas’s words from earlier. “Better make them believe it.”

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was... fluff? I wrote something with more fluff than angst?? Wow guys, better enjoy it while it lasts. 
> 
> Maybe I'll start giving little teasers for the coming chapters: next one, we're gonna see Cas struggling to convince himself of something he'd up until recently accepted as fact.


	6. tolerate it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 5: tolerate it
> 
> Cas rides a bus and talks to a stranger while running away from the bunker. 
> 
> This is Cas's side of the aftermath of the breakup in ep 15x03. Like ch.2, this one contains SPOILERS for the episode.

> I sit and watch you reading with your head low  
>  I wake and watch you breathing with your eyes closed  
>  I sit and watch you  
>  I notice everything you do or don't do  
>  You're so much older and wiser, and I
> 
> I wait by the door like I'm just a kid  
>  Use my best colors for your portrait  
>  Lay the table with the fancy shit  
>  And watch you tolerate it  
>  If it's all in my head, tell me now  
>  Tell me I've got it wrong somehow  
>  I know my love should be celebrated  
>  But you tolerate it
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, tolerate it

  


* * *

  
Cas let the bunker’s door close behind him, and lifted his face up towards the evening light. His mouth opened slightly, drawing in a shaky breath of the cool air and then closing once more. Inside the bunker, through the door he’d hated to close behind himself, Dean was probably still standing against the table, silently raging. The anger that was inside of him, Cas wished he could pop it like a balloon, give it space to seep out of him. Dean was not himself, and he hadn’t been for weeks. 

Since Cas couldn't seem to succeed in getting through to him, there was no reason to stay any longer with the Winchesters. Seeing Dean, being near him but unable to talk to him, was slowly eating a hole into Castiel’s heart. Dean’s expression dropped into cold disgust every time his eyes landed on Cas, as if Dean saw in his place a rotting corpse; perhaps he did, the dead body of Dean’s mother. He still blamed Cas for her death. 

How had they gotten to this loveless place? It wasn’t entirely either party's fault, Cas told himself. Dean had obviously shifted all the blame onto Castiel, unwilling to listen to Cas’s arguments that he’d only ever tried to do the right thing. Dean had always been stubborn. It was endearing when it wasn’t directed at you. 

Cas turned and pressed his forehead to the rough outside of the bunker’s door. He mouthed _I’m sorry_ against the metal. That was the last apology he would give. It wasn’t his responsibility to apologize for the same thing a hundred times, and not his fault that it kept falling on deaf ears. 

He broke away from the door, letting his arms hang limply at his sides as he began the long walk to the nearest town. There was no reason to fly—he had nowhere to go in any hurry. Although Cas was sure that he was doing the right thing by leaving, he had no idea where he would go. The Winchesters had become his family. He’d gotten used to planning his movements around them.

The sun fell closer and closer towards the horizon as Cas walked. It moved behind a line of trees and cast long shadows over the road, as if the forest was folding in on itself. The moving shadows were reminiscent of how the sky had opened up above the crevice to Hell, after God had ripped open the earth. 

_Your friends might never see you again. Funny, ‘cause they didn’t seem to think twice about it._ The words spoken then by the demon, Belphegor, rung in Cas’s ears. That day when the world had almost ended, Cas had been voluntold by Dean to accompany the demon down into Hell. Other than that, there was no truth to Belphegor’s taunt. Dean may have thrown Cas into Hell with no second thought, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t care. Demons were hardly known for their truth telling, and Belphegor had certainly had reason to attempt to drive a wedge between Cas and the Winchesters. Dean had been more focused on preventing the end of the world than on Cas’s safety, as was to be expected. 

Would Dean have cared if Cas hadn’t made it back? Surely he would have. He’d known how dangerous the task would be, and he’d known that Cas was perfectly capable. Dean didn’t speak of it often, but he’d taken Cas’s deaths hard in the past. He wouldn’t have sent Cas down there to die. Dean wanted Cas alive, as family does. 

It seemed unlikely that Dean would stop caring entirely because of Cas’s recent mistakes. Unlikely, but not impossible. Stubborn to a fault, Dean Winchester. 

The other option, though, was even worse. 

_Sam and Dean are just using you. Don’t mistake that for caring about you, because I can assure you, they don’t._ Those had been words from Castiel’s own mouth, not meant for himself, but turned around on him by Belphegor. Cas had been mainly a tool in the beginning, perhaps. And yes, his grace did give him powers that had often been useful. In the past decade, though, Cas had become more than that. Dean said it himself: Cas was like family. 

Family that you gave up on as soon as they were no longer proving their worth. 

Cas kicked his foot against the pavement, hitting a pebble and sending it scurrying sideways. The pebble came to a bouncing stop against the base of a thin metallic pole. A bus stop sign, Cas realized as his eyes followed it upwards. He’d found a bus stop. 

The sign included no indication of when the bus may be making an appearance. Cas paused, dipping his fingers into his coat pockets. He’d never ridden on a bus before, although he was fairly certain that to do so, as with most human activities, would cost him money. 

His pockets produced a handful of coins—mostly pennies and dimes—as well as a fifty dollar bill. One of those options ought to do. He decided to wait for a few hours, and if the bus hadn’t come by then, perhaps he would have thought of somewhere to go on his own. 

So Cas settled in to wait. He crossed one ankle over the other, and clasped his hands together behind his back. He watched the darkening trees ahead of him, and wondered what vampires or ghosts may exist in the forest. But then that train of thought led him straight back to thinking about Dean, and so Cas tried to focus on something different. 

Motion from the side caused Cas to turn suddenly, readying his angel blade to take out one of the monsters he’d been imagining. The preparation had been for nothing, it turned out; the movement was only a family of deer, a mother and two young fawns. They padded carefully out from between the trees, their large dark eyes catching in the streetlights.

It was lucky that they had each other, the deer. If the mother hadn’t rushed her babies across the street, then the car that passed would have run right into them. The world was much easier to navigate with a family. At one point Cas had considered the other angels his family. That had been before he’d learned the true meaning of the word. 

Perhaps angels weren’t meant to have families. Celestial beings, it was likely, were just too inhuman. Cas had been the closest out of all the other angels to actually joining a family, and despite all the good that it had brought him, Cas had watched it fall away. He’d caused it to fall away. 

Had Sam and Dean ever considered Cas to be family at all? 

Stuck on that question, Cas was surprised by the large, lumbering machine that slowed down as it approached. It paused right in front of him, made a terrible noise like a balloon deflating, and then a door swung open. Cas stared through the door unblinkingly. 

“Are you getting on?” Called the only person Cas could see. He sat on the far side of the machine, on a raised seat. The bus driver, it took Cas a moment to remember. 

“Uh,” Cas looked down to watch his feet as he stepped up the stairs into the bus. He held the fifty dollar bill out to the driver. 

“I can’t make change.” 

“Is this better?” Cas traded hands and held the coins forwards instead. The bus driver counted out a selection of the coins from Cas’s hand, one of his eyebrows raised questioningly the entire time. Once he’d collected a satisfactory amount of the change, he let it fall into a little machine, which spat out a ticket in return. 

“Here ya’ go, Sir. Last stop is in Oakville.” 

“Thank you,” Cas said somberly. He took the ticket from the bus driver, and let it slide into his pocket as he walked farther inside. 

The person who had designed the bus seats must have been quite fond of colourful zig zags. Each seat had a slightly different pattern, all more confusing to look at than the next. Cas chose the most plain of the vacant seats, and sat down just before the bus lurched forwards. It was too dark to see outside the windows, and the fluorescents that lit the bus shone too brightly in comparison. Only one other person rode inside; she looked no older than Claire, and held a backpack tightly between her feet. Her body was bent awkwardly to lean against the side of the bus, and it seemed that she was trying to sleep. 

Each time that the bus turned a corner or drove over a bump, the girl’s body hit against the side. She didn’t seem to mind, but human bodies were so delicate. She could get hurt if she hit her head too hard. 

Cas pulled his trench coat sleeves off one by one, and twisted in his seat to pull it the rest of the way off. He folded it up into a pillow-sized bundle, careful to remove his angel blade and anything else sharp from the pockets. 

When the bus stopped at a red light, Cas lifted himself from his seat and moved carefully towards the girl. He sat back down two seats away from her, and held out his coat. 

The girl’s eyes had opened to follow Cas's movement, and now she watched him cautiously from under her hood. Her eyes were the same colour as Dean’s, although she looked at him with none of the same familiarity. Actually, the girl took him in with a cold sort of discomfort, very far from familiar. 

She shifted back away from him, beginning to turn around. Cas withdrew his coat, and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Okay,” the girl replied, still turning away. 

“I thought you might want to use my coat to sleep on. I won’t get cold, so you don’t have to worry about me.” 

That paused her movement, and she drew her eyebrows down as she turned back to him. “Excuse me?” 

“You were trying to sleep, but the movement of the bus was keeping you awake. When Sam sleeps in the Impala, he uses a sweater balled up against the door. I thought you might like to use my coat.” 

“Yeah, actually,” the girl said, a slight smile playing at her lips. “If you don’t mind.”

Cas held his coat forwards once more, and this time the girl took it. She squeezed it between her hands before tucking it against her shoulder and leaning over once more. “Thanks,” she whispered as she closed her eyes. 

Cas watched over the girl as she slept. It gave him something to do, something to occupy his mind instead of thoughts of Sam and Dean. Each time Cas’s brain brought him back to Dean’s anger, Cas focused harder on ensuring that the girl was protected. He had nearly forgotten what he was trying so hard to repress when her eyes fluttered open, and a million images of Dean’s eyes doing the exact same thing hit Cas like a train. 

He looked sharply away from her, clutching a hand to his mouth. The regrets hadn’t actually gone anywhere while he’d forgotten them, it seemed. They had only grouped together, creating a tidal wave to hit him all at once. 

A slight weight landed on Cas’s lap, and he clutched at it with his free hand. The material of his trench coat scratched against his fingers. The girl had returned it to him. 

“Are you, um, alright?” 

Cas slid his hand off of his face, and tried to smile at the girl. He held his coat up, nodding a thanks for the return. 

“You look like you’re not alright,” the girl added. 

“I believe that humans are accustomed to saying that they are fine when they’re not.” 

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure I got some drool on your coat, so you can pretty much tell me anything now.” The girl shrugged. She slid her backpack along the floor as she moved a seat closer to Cas, one empty spot still between them. Her bag was open at the top, just enough for Cas to catch the title on her textbook: 12th grade Economics. She was still in high school. 

“Where is your family?” Cas asked. Wasn’t she young to be on an overnight bus by herself? 

“I’m meeting up with them, well, half of them. My Mom lives back the other way. I travel between them, Mom’s for weekends and holidays, Dad’s for school weeks.” 

“Do you like doing that?” 

“Well,” the girl shrugged. “Family’s complicated. Seeing both of them sometimes is better than not seeing them.” 

Outside the bus windows, the night was beginning to seep back into day. Cas could make out the lines of the trees and the point where the side of the road stopped and the forest began. He held his coat against his chest as he asked, “how do you know that they consider you family?” 

“Uh, I guess because they are related to me, but that’s not really what you asked.” The girl tugged at her sleeve. “I know that I consider them my family because I love them, and although some days I’d rather have some distance between us, I wouldn’t want to live without them. I guess that I know they’re my family because I can tell that they feel the same way about me.” 

“So, just love from one side, that isn’t enough.” Cas meant to say it as a question. It came out as more of a plea for her to disagree. 

“I think it would be difficult,” the girl said slowly, “to get to that point of understanding and trust with someone if they didn’t feel something similar for you.” 

Cas smiled at the girl, and found her smiling back, both slightly hesitant. “Thank yo-” Cas started, his words cut off by a loud grinding sound, and a violent shifting of the bus sideways. Cas’s hand flew forwards to hold on to the girl as the bus shook and continued swinging sideways. 

Her eyes had flown open, and she looked to Cas with an expression of terror, but she wasn’t going to get hurt. Cas had grabbed her in time to keep her from being flung off of her seat. The movement only lasted for a few more seconds before it came to a jolting halt. 

“Are you ok?” Cas asked, already standing. 

“Yeah, but-” 

“Wait here.” Cas rushed through the bus, stopping once he’d reached the driver’s chair. The driver’s head was bowed forwards over the steering wheel, but his pulse was strong. Cas’s grace lit his hands up gold, and he held them forwards. 

He’d nearly finished healing the driver when he heard a cry of astonishment from behind him. 

“You were supposed to stay in your seat,” Cas said without turning. 

“You dropped your coat when you stood, and I…” She trailed off. “What was that?” 

The bus driver moaned and lifted his head. He was still not fully conscious, but he would be fine. Cas sighed and turned to the girl. She handed him his coat. 

“If I tell you, you have to promise to not tell anyone else,” Cas said. The girl nodded sharply. “Alright, then,” Cas slid one arm into his coat, pulling it back on. “I’m an angel of the Lord.” 

“An angel?” The girl repeated. 

“Not a very good one,” Cas admitted. He smiled at the ground. 

“Is your family here on earth?” 

“I think so,” Cas repositioned his angel blade back into his coat sleeve how he liked it. “Although we are currently in a disagreement.” 

“I’m sure they miss you,” the girl said softly. “I know I will.”

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Castiel with my whole heart and I, too, miss him greatly. 
> 
> Alrighty, next chapter will be an AU which I am SO excited to share with you! No more hints bc idk how to describe it more w/o giving it away. Thanks for reading!


	7. no body, no crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 6: no body, no crime
> 
> Alt/hbo Supernatural AU. I've seen some great fanart and ideas for what Supernatural could have been if it had been aired on a different, less censored network. Here is my take on that idea. 
> 
> Content warning for smoking, blood/injury.

> I think he did it, but I just can't prove it (He did it)  
>  I think he did it, but I just can't prove it (He did it)  
>  I think he did it, but I just can't prove it  
>  No, no body, no crime  
>  But I ain't lettin' up until the day I die  
>    
>  \- Taylor Swift, no body, no crime 

  


* * *

  
The bite of pain in his forehead hadn’t faded all day. It was a numbing, tedious thing which made Dean want to close his eyes and rub at his temple. He shook a cigarette out of the box, lit it with a flick of his lighter, hoping that the nicotine would give him some relief. The lighter he’d pulled from his back pocket happened to be the black one that Charlie had drawn a shaky pentagram onto with white nail polish. 

_What, d’y think a demon will try ‘n take over my lighter?_ Dean had mumbled as he’d watched her finish the star from over her shoulder. 

_No, but I think that you’ll like the painting._

And she’d been right; it was the longest Dean had kept the same lighter around. He hadn’t liked the white nail polish quite as much. He’d kept it on his nails until it had started to chip, but as soon as it was gone, he’d switched back to black polish on his thumb, middle and pinky finger. 

Charlie said it looked unfinished like that, with only three nails painted. Dean told her to fuck off. He liked the way that it made certain fingers look longer, and the nail polish even more evident. It looked plenty great wrapped around the handle of a knife, or holding a cigarette, too. 

The smoke that he blew out spiraled up into the air, only visibly different from the sky for a moment before it mixed into the foggy grey half-light. It was either early morning or late evening, impossible to tell the difference without a watch, and Dean’s was broken again. It clung, still, onto his wrist, the glass shattered and the hands unmoving. 

Across the parking lot, through the fog, Dean waited for the movement that he knew would come. He closed his eyes for brief intervals, the cigarette smoke not really doing his headache the good that he’d hoped. As if that would be enough for him to put it out before it was done. He scratched at his wrist with his free hand. The cut there—werewolf attack—was beginning to scab over. He scratched too hard and his fingers came off bloody. He wiped them against his jeans. 

The fog was turning to a mist thick enough to dampen Dean’s clothes. He stepped back under the overhang, pressing his back to the rough wall. From this close to the building, the light coming through the windows was too much for him to see through the darkness. The movement would come and he would miss it, but that was okay. The movement would be looking for him too. 

He let his head fall back to rest against the wall, his gaze pointed up at the sky. He could just make out the outline of a glowing sign across the road. It was a sign for the diner, but he wouldn’t have been able to tell if he didn’t already know. Dean didn’t go there anymore, to the diner. They recognized him, connected him with Sam and the ungodly amount of non-human blood that had painted the bathroom walls.

Dean closed his eyes and let them stay closed as he finished off his cigarette. Sammy had been better, recently. Or he’d become better at hiding it. Dean’s attention to his little brother hadn’t been what it should be, lately--too many other things on his mind. The rumble of a semi down the road shook into his bones and a weight landed heavy against his chest, pinning him against the wall. Dean smiled against his teeth. 

“Hello, Castiel.” The movement had found him through the fog. 

Hungry lips pressed to Dean’s and the weight against his chest—Cas’s arm—held him back tighter. Dean opened his mouth up to the embrace, otherwise unmoving, letting Castiel take what he wanted. When Castiel’s hand finally released him from the wall, moving up to wind its way into his hair instead, Dean wrapped his arms tightly around Castiel’s shoulders. He wasn’t looking for anything, wasn't asking for anything. He just wanted to feel the angel against him, solid and alive. 

“You were gone for longer this time.” Dean breathed into Castiel’s mouth. 

“Mmh.” Castiel replied. He moved his lips over to Dean’s cheekbone, and let his teeth brush against Dean’s skin as he replied, “I told you not to expect me back before the weekend.” 

“ ’s Thursday, Cas. The weekend was four days ago.” 

“In that case,” Castiel replied. His breath was acid against Dean’s cheek. “I’m sorry.” He pulled away, and Dean released his hold around Castiel’s back. He grabbed him instead by the shoulders, holding Cas still so that he could take him. The light shining through the windows lit a white stripe across Cas's face, darkening the shadows even deeper by comparison. 

Castiel’s eyes were buried in deep circles, his lips pale and chapped. He looked as he always did when he returned from Heaven: the set of his mouth was just off, the tick of his eyebrow just a fraction lower than normal. He looked as if he’d been turned inside out and then set right again, but something had gone wrong along the way. 

“What'd they do to you up there?” 

Castiel smiled with half of his mouth. It was an expression that he’d learned from Dean, and it always caught Dean off guard. “You mean what did I do to them? They are weak, Dean; Heaven grows weaker everyday. Blood was running through the halls, I had to wade through it like a stream. They are losing.” 

Dean licked his tongue over his lips. Castiel drew his power from Heaven. There was a bridge that they had yet to cross, and that was figuring out which part of Castiel would make it back from Heaven for the last time, if any at all. 

“And you-” 

“I’m electric.” Castiel whispered. He leaned in to kiss once more into Dean’s mouth, then took three steps back and sat down on one of the grey parking blocks. It was a small thing for him to sit on, and his long legs were bent awkwardly in front of him, his knees bent towards his chest. Castiel leaned forwards, pulling his shirt off over his head. 

Dean put out the dregs of his cigarette with the heel of his boot, then moved to stand behind Castiel. The pale skin of his bare back looked as if it had been painted in rich purples and blues. Bruises, like the wounds of a hundred lost battles. 

“Fuck, man.” Dean said. He knelt down, and traced one finger lightly around the largest of the bruises. It spanned from the bottom of Castiel’s shoulder bone and across his spine down to his lower back. Another semi raced by on the road, growling like a hungry beast. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Cas said unconvincingly. He’d rolled his pants up on one leg, and was massaging an indented mark that circled his ankle. 

“Why won’t they heal?” Dean asked, letting his words fizzle into the thick air. Castiel had, at one point, been untouchable. Neither bullet nor blade had been able to leave a mark, and if anything had, his celestial power would have healed it within seconds. 

“Heaven is losing,” Cas said, words just as quiet. He didn’t elaborate, and Dean didn’t press. He just continued tracing his finger against Castiel’s skin: alive, solid. Here, for the moment if nothing else, here. 

“Are you tired?” 

Cas’s head tilted, and even from behind him, Dean knew that Cas was giving him a calculating stare-down. 

“I just meant, do ya' want to rest,” Dean rephrased. 

“I want to be with you.” 

“I’d be down to rest.” 

“Are you tired?” The emphasis on each word suggested that Castiel rather liked to be the one asking this question, instead of the other way around. 

“No,” Dean said, not untruthfully. He could have slept, but he wasn’t tired. His blood coursed quickly through his veins, excited by just being so close to Castiel. 

“Good.” Cas replied. He slid his shirt back on and lifted himself to standing, reaching down to help Dean up as well. He didn’t drop Dean’s hand once they started walking. The warmth of Castiel’s skin against his released tension from Dean’s shoulders; his headache, too, had lessened significantly. 

Something about Cas’s hand felt just a little off, though. It took Dean a second to remember what it was, as if his mind was working through the same thick fog that their bodies walked through. 

Dean’s free hand slipped into his jeans pocket. Pressed tight against his skin, secure and hidden, Dean had kept Castiel’s rings safe for him while he’d been gone. He pulled at Cas towards him, turning them to face each other, then dropped the contact. 

The first ring he retrieved was the silver one, its thick band cool against his skin. He brushed the pad of his thumb over its texture—feathers, carved with delicate lines into a pair of wings. Dean held Castiel’s hand flat as he slipped the ring onto his middle finger. 

“Did ya' think I’d forget?” Dean asked as he reached into his pocket for the second ring. 

“Not at all. I was only waiting until you remembered.” Castiel opened and closed his fist, eyes trained on the glint of the ring. “I’ve missed them. They remind me of you.” 

“And I’ve enjoyed hanging onto them, for the same reason.” Dean pulled Cas’s hand back out flat, and pushed the second ring onto his pointer finger. This one was thinner, a black band with a line of deep red circling along one side. It was made of minerals from the grounds of Hell. One ring to represent above, one for below, and somehow together they made Castiel think of him. 

“Does your own not do the same?” Cas asked. Dean’s ring, on his left ring finger, belonged to no one. It couldn’t, for it did not truly exist. It was made of celestial energy, although it had been made to look like a simple gold band. It reminded him of Castiel so badly that sometimes he couldn’t even look at it--he was terrified that the ring would outlive its reason for existing. 

“No, it does. 't was just nice t' have something of yours.” In the grey light, Cas's blue eyes shone like visions of crystal waters. Their clarity, although beautiful, was guarded. Dean couldn’t tell if Cas had heard the way his voice had shaken.

Castiel cupped Dean’s cheek with his hand, the newly returned rings like the blunt edge of a knife where they touched his skin. “Then, my love, we must find something of mine that you can keep for yourself. Thank you for taking such good care of mine.” He trailed his nails lightly against Dean’s jaw as he pulled him in for another kiss. He broke it off after only seconds, dropping his hand to entwine with Dean’s once more. “I would like to go for a walk. Care to join?” 

Dean nodded, knowing that Castiel wasn’t really waiting for a response. They continued moving forwards through the fog, boots crunching on the gravel of the parking lot and stomping louder once they’d reached the road. They passed underneath the diner sign, the red lights casting blood-like shadows under Castiel’s eyes and into the dips of his cheekbones. 

In this lighting, with his mouth tightly set and his body still tense, still affected by his time in Heaven, Dean remembered how easy it was to be scared of the creature beside him. Castiel’s posture, after years acclimating to life on earth, had become deceptively relaxed. The angel that walked the Earth fresh from Heaven held himself like he was made of ceaseless power, like he wouldn’t hesitate to draw the blood of anything that got in his way. 

Dean tightened his grasp around Cas’s hand. His Cas, this creature that masqueraded as human but really was so much more. Castiel had known the risks and he’d chosen to weaken Heaven anyways. This would not be the end for either of them. 

“D' they know that it’s you?” 

Cas’s eyes flicked upwards as he responded, the red lights turning his irises the colour of sin. “That I’m the reason for Heaven’s unwinding? No.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s not as if there are any bodies for them to use to identify me. Most of the higher ups are refusing to even acknowledge that an outside force is trying to bring them down. They’re trying to say that there’s some fault in the coding, or with the function. As far as most are concerned, no crime-” 

Cas’s words were cut off by the door of the diner swinging open. A man in a white apron pushed someone outside. “I told you to never show your face here again, freak. Next time I see you, I’m not going to think twice.” 

The body that had been pushed out of the door nearly fell, catching themselves against the wall. The diner cook spat at the ground. The bells hanging at the top of the door rang, cutting off abruptly as the door shut once more. 

Dean took a step forward, on instinct moving to block Cas. He’d left his knife back at the motel. He balled his hands into fists and lifted them in front of his chest, ready. Cas’s hand landed on his back calmly. 

“Dean-” He said softly. “Dean, that’s-”

The person outside the diner straightened themselves up, their silhouette shaped with wide shoulders and long legs. They stepped onto the sidewalk, moving underneath a streetlight. The lines and curves of their face were immediately familiar.

“Sam?” The word fell from Dean’s open lips. He dropped his fists, began running towards his brother. “Sam!” 

Sam’s face shone darkly near the bottom, something covering or dripping from his mouth. His wild eyes caught Dean’s only for a moment, before he bolted in the opposite direction. 

“Sam, stop!” Dean called, as loud as his tired lungs would let him. Castiel kept pace beside him, despite his bruises. As they ran past the windowed door of the diner, a head of dark hair sat herself down at the bar. Ruby—the demon who let Sam drink her blood. 

“Shit, Cas. How'd this happen?” Dean doubled over, his hands on his knees. His headache had returned, and his head felt like it was about to spit in two. Beside him, Cas knelt to the ground. Dean followed his eyeline to the splotches of dark blood in a line down the sidewalk. 

“We can follow him,” Cas said. He raked a hand back through his hair, pulling at the strands. The circles under his eyes seemed to have darkened. 

“What good'll that do?” Dean fell to the side, sitting down against the wall of the diner. “The deed’s already done, Cas.” A car lumbered by on the road, its yellow headlights filtering through the fog. The low rumble of a baseline shook the air as it passed. 

Dean dropped his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain throbbed. Cas lowered himself down beside him, his rings clinking against the pavement when he put his weight onto his hand. The morning was still hours away.

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this one and focusing on the aesthetic. I hope that you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear your thoughts <3
> 
> Did I paint my nails black after writing this? Hmm... uh... I'll let you decide. 
> 
> Ok, next chapter: it's a fix-it for a certain episode. Since the next song album-order wise is called 'happiness,' I feel like you probably have a pretty good idea of which episode that may be. Ttly!


	8. happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 7: happiness 
> 
> Fix-it for episode 15x18: Cas's confession. Picks up from canon (includes SPOILERS) and then quickly abandons canon entirely. 
> 
> Cas finally tells Dean how he feels, but to do so he must take a big risk.

> Past the blood and bruise  
>  Past the curses and cries  
>  Beyond the terror in the nightfall  
>  Haunted by the look in my eyes  
>  That would've loved you for a lifetime  
>  Leave it all behind  
>  And there is happiness
> 
> -Taylor Swift, happiness

  


* * *

  
“Why does this sound like a goodbye?” Dean asked, the fear automatic. He had to be wrong, because there was no way Cas would just leave him, not after saying those words that made Dean’s head spin, made his heart race. All of Dean’s insecurities, his thoughts of himself, spoken and dismissed as Cas had smiled all the while. 

Cas’s eyes tightened, their gaze never faltering. His expression sent a ripple of fear through Dean--not because Cas looked worried, but because he looked the opposite. Cas’s eyes shone with a vibrant happiness, as if his whole world had come together. Why did he look like that? Why now? 

“Because it is,” Cas said, voice breaking. He really was trying to make this their goodbye, the selfish bastard. 

Dean took a breath, ready to push back and tell Cas that he was crazy. Death pounded louder against the warded door. 

“I love you,” Cas continued, and Dean’s heart stopped. He shook his head to one side. He must have heard wrong, because this- this was not how it ended. He and Cas, this was not how they ended, some half-completed thing, unreciprocated. Dean’s mouth wouldn’t work, he couldn’t think, couldn’t get his lips to make the words that would return Cas’s confession. But he wanted to. In a different moment, Dean would have been able to. This wasn’t how they were supposed to end. 

“Don’t do this, Cas,” Dean said, a plea, a prayer. _Don’t do this, Cas. Don’t leave me now that I know what’s been possible this whole time._

Behind them, a ripple of black, like the deepest ocean, began to flower out from the wall. At the same time, the door flew open, knocking back loudly as Death stepped into the room. They were surrounded on both sides, yet Dean could hardly process the danger. All he knew was that he and Cas were going to survive. They had to. 

“Cas,” Dean said, the beginning of a plan on his lips. 

“Goodbye, Dean,” Cas said, because apparently the stupid angel still thought Dean was going to let him say all that and then sacrifice himself. Cas grabbed Dean’s shoulder firmly. He started to push Dean aside, out of the path of Death and the Empty. He would leave himself completely open to both. 

Dean clung to Cas’s arm at the last moment, causing them both to topple sideways with the momentum that Cas had meant for just Dean. They crashed against the wall, Dean’s back hitting the bricks and his hip digging into the cement floor. He hardly felt the contact. His only thought was on protecting Cas. 

If what the angel had said had been true, the Empty was here only for him. He’d felt true happiness by confessing his love for Dean, and completed the deal he’d made on his life. A delicate beauty existed in naming the joy and openness of admittance, but that wasn’t what Cas deserved; he deserved to feel the complete happiness of having his love reciprocated, and of knowing that someone in the cold, broken world loved him back. 

Dean threw his body overtop of Castiel’s, blocking him the best he could from the oozing tendrils of the Empty. Cas thrashed underneath him, trying to push Dean off, to do the valiant thing and sacrifice himself. Dean pushed all of his weight down, trapping Cas against the floor. 

The beat of Death’s scythe hitting the ground echoed ominously with each step that she took towards them. It grew louder as she drew closer. While the Empty was looking for Cas, it was Dean that Death wanted. Dean’s back was open to the ceiling, the back of his neck completely vulnerable. Maybe he hadn’t thought his plan out the whole way through. 

“Dean,” Cas said hoarsely from underneath him. He’d wrapped one arm around Dean’s chest, and one leg had looped around Dean’s knee. Cas was trying to flip him onto his side. Dean leaned heavily against him. As long as Cas was hidden from the Empty, Dean wasn’t giving up. 

The hit of Death’s scythe against the ground echoed louder and louder, as if it was repeatedly being lifted and dropped right beside Dean’s ear. Finally, it stopped. 

“I’ve got you now, Dean,” she whispered, her voice right above him. Dean lowered his head and closed his eyes as he waited for the weapon to strike him. Cas continued to push against him. The slime that reached out from the empty made a great slurping sound, as if it too was right over top of them. 

So here was the end, then. Death would kill Dean, and then both she and Cas would be taken by the Empty. Dean would never get to tell Cas that he loved him back. 

A tear ran down Dean’s cheek, leaving a red hot trail behind it. The air throbbed with adrenaline, with the promise of the end. A whooshing sound, like a weapon being positioned to strike, sounded from right above them. Dean tensed his shoulders. He counted silently backwards from ten. The world dropped away. 

3...2...1… The crashing of the scythe, the oozing of the Empty, everything stopped. Silence vibrated eerily against Dean’s ears. Was this what it felt like to be dead? Perhaps the pain had been quick enough that he’d missed it. 

“Dean,” Cas mumbled against him. Cas. Cas was still here. Why was Cas still here, if Dean was dead? 

Dean opened his eyes. The storage room of the bunker still stood around him. The scent of dust and old books still hung in the air. Without lifting himself off of Cas, Dean swung his head around. Where the Empty had opened up, there was now only solid wall. 

“Dean,” Cas tried again, more aggressive this time. He wound his hands up onto Dean’s shoulders. “They’re gone.” 

Dean lifted himself slowly away from Cas, turning over so that they sat side by side. They were the only creatures in the room. The light fixture hummed above them, terribly mundane. 

“What the Hell happened?” Dean asked roughly. His heart fired double time inside his chest. 

“The Empty took Death, and then,” Cas frowned. “And then it left.” 

“What, it got bored?” 

“No, I think,” Cas tilted his chin towards the wall where the Empty had been, as if not quite believing his own words. “The Empty was angry with Death for sending Jack there. Perhaps, after taking Death, it decided that it was satisfied.” 

“Awesome,” Dean said hoarsely. He leaned heavily against the wall as he lifted himself to his feet. His footsteps echoed too loudly against the cement floor with every step. He brought himself to where the Empty had appeared, and traced one finger down the lines of the bricks. “How do we know that it won’t come back and get you later?” 

“We don’t,” Cas said simply. He’d stood as well, and was making his way towards the open door. He began clearing the smudged sigil off of the door panel. 

Dean turned, facing towards the open room, towards Cas. The shelves of books and boxes cast lines of shadow onto his dusty shoulders. “Cas, about what you said-” Dean started. 

“You don’t have to say anything, Dean.” The sigil had been cleaned away, but Cas still kept his hand raised, palm flat against the door. He slid it downwards slowly, fingers lingering like rain drops. “I meant it, that happiness can be just in being.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Dean said softly. He pressed his lips together, thinking the thing that he couldn’t say out loud and thinking it and thinking it and directing all of it towards Cas as if somehow Cas would hear it. 

“What?” Cas asked. His hand fell to his side as he turned to face Dean. They stood on opposite sides of the room, both pressed against the edges. The space between them pulsed with hope and possibility. Under it all, the connection that had always brought them back to each other, their shared understanding and faith and love for each other, pulled stronger than ever. 

“I said, it doesn’t have to be. Happiness in, in only the being.” 

Cas’s eyes dropped, and he turned his face away. “You shouldn’t say that if you don’t-” He smiled again, just a ghost of the one he’d worn before. “When I said I love you, I meant—I mean it more than family, Dean. More than friends.” 

“I know, Cas.” Dean took a step forward, his feet moving without his asking. “When I said, ‘I need you,’ I meant it as in, ‘I die everyday that you’re not here.’” He took another wide step forward. “When I said, ‘I’m not leaving here without you,’ I meant, ‘I’ve been looking for you like a lost past of myself, and I didn’t know relief until I'd found you again.’” 

Dean stepped up to Cas, leaving less than a foot between them. “I’ve never known what to say, Cas. Each time I thought about telling you, the words got all twisted up, or I talked myself down. But I know, I know that when I say, ‘I love you too,’ I mean, ‘there was no way in Hell that I was letting you die without getting to tell you that,’ because I want you to know, man. You deserve to know. Even if I can’t frickin' say it.” 

“Dean,” Cas whispered. His eyes were clouding over with a fresh set of tears. 

“What? What, did I-” He replayed his own words back, realizing what he’d said. “Oh.” He waved his hand to the side. “Come on, man, that’s not fair! I told you I love you and I didn’t even do it on purpose!” Dean dropped his head back to look at the ceiling. “And I just did it again!” 

Cas used Dean’s spread arms as an opportunity to press their bodies together. Dean quickly reciprocated the hug, pressing the palm of his right hand into the center of Cas’s back. 

“How long?” Dean whispered. 

“Huh?” Cas had pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder, and he took a second to reposition his head so that he could hear. 

“I said, how long have you known?”

“That I was in love with you? That’s an odd question. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly when-” 

“Because I’ve known since you pushed me against the wall in the Green Room,” Dean said smugly. 

“That was less than a year after we met.” 

“So I win, then.” 

“Dean, I don’t think you can-” Cas pulled out of their hug to criticize Dean to his face, but his gaze fell instead to Dean’s lips. This whole thing with Cas, the actually talking about it part, may have been entirely new, but Dean was well versed with someone eyeing his lips like that. He knew what that meant. 

Dean moved his hand to cup behind Cas’s head, and brought their faces closer. He closed his eyes as their lips pressed together. Somewhere against the floor, Dean’s phone buzzed. He let it ring. 

Cas’s arms were back around him, nearly too tight, and their lips met imperfectly together. Dean hadn’t expected Cas to kiss him so gently, and perhaps Cas hadn’t expected Dean to go in with such vigour. It took a moment to adjust, to figure out what went where. 

Dean smiled into the kiss. He was so light he could have been floating. Happiness. He realized, this was happiness. He’d missed it for so long.

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you feel my rage towards Cas's ending in this? Bc I sure did. He deserved to know that he was loved, damnit! 
> 
> Next chapter, as promised, will be a follow-up to chapter 4. What happens after Cas gets jealous and runs away in the middle of a hunt? 
> 
> Hope to see you there!


	9. dorothea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 8: dorothea
> 
> Dean goes looking for Castiel after finishing the case in the bar alone. He does not recognize Cas when he finds him.
> 
> Written as a follow-up for chapter 4 of this fic.

> Ooh, this place is the same as it ever was  
>  Ooh, but you won't like it that way
> 
> It's never too late to come back to my side  
>  The stars in your eyes shined brighter in Tupelo  
>  And if you're ever tired of bеing known for who you know  
>  You know that you'll always know me, Dorothea (Uh-uh)  
> 
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, dorothea

  


* * *

  
Dean swung his jacket back around his shoulders, careful not to knock his arms up against the tight walls. He stepped over the body, bending to pull his silver knife from her heart. It was slicked with blood, coloured black in the dim light. He shook his sleeve over his hand and wiped it across the blade, somewhat cleaning it before stashing it back on his person. 

The waitress’s dull eyes were open towards the ceiling. Dean shuttered as he finished stepping past her body. He’d almost had to kiss the thing—not that it would have been so terrible to kiss the waitress—but the thing wearing her face, he didn’t ever want to be that close to. 

She’d agreed to leave with him after her shift, the product of some well-timed winks and flirty one-liners on his part. Dean had planned to wait until they slipped somewhere private to make sure that his hunch was right. She’d tried to kiss him as soon as they’d made it five steps from the bar. Man, that had been a close one. 

Dean shuttered again. He opened the door back into the hallway a crack, looking both ways before ducking out. The noise and heat of the bar shocked his system, switching him out of ‘hunting’ mode and releasing the tension in his hands. His gaze flicked lazily towards the alcohol. He deserved a drink or two. 

Sitting down on a stool, however, rebooted Dean’s brain once more. He’d unintentionally chosen the same stool he’d sat on before, and the missing presence of his case-partner became immediately apparent. Where had Cas gone? He’d said something about wasting time... 

“Can I get ya’ a drink?” Asked a bartender with a white towel thrown over his shoulder. 

“In a-” Dean turned one way, scanning the room, then flipped around to see the rest of it. “Have you seen a man in a beige trench coat? Dark hair? Dorky little guy?” He asked the bartender. 

“No, not that I can remember. You meeting him here?”

“Something like that,” Dean said. “Hey, hold onto that drink for me, ‘k? I’ll be back.” Dean flicked the bartender a grin over his shoulder, and descended from the bar stool. The weather outside had shifted towards rain, and Dean popped his jacket collar up as the bar’s door closed behind him. He could feel the raindrops already seeping into the denim. 

The shiny black body of the Impala waited patiently for him in the parking lot. A large part of Dean wanted to get inside of Baby, rev up her engine and start the smooth ride back home. Cas was a free agent, he didn’t need Dean tracking him down for leaving. Hadn’t he said something about his duties to Heaven? The guy was probably out of Dean’s reach by now, anyways. 

Dean let his legs carry him towards his car. He rubbed his hands together, thinking about the music he’d play on the ride back to the bunker. He slid his hands into his pocket for the keys, pressed them into the lock in the driver’s side door, and then used his free hand to knock against the side of the hood in exasperation. 

“Damnit, Cas!” Dean groaned. He pulled the key back out of the door, put it back into his pocket, and huffed as he walked back to the sidewalk. No matter how much Dean tried to convince himself otherwise, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Cas was still somewhere nearby. 

The rain turned from a light mist into big, wet drops that hit Dean’s shoulders and bled through all his layers of clothes in seconds flat. He pulled his coat together, crossing his arms over his chest. Each time a car passed him along the road, Dean was hit by a gust of wet wind. Either Cas hadn’t meant for Dean to follow, or he had forgotten that humans could get cold. 

Puddles formed between the cracks in the pavement, and Dean’s eyes had become glued to the ground in an attempt to save his shoes when he caught a glimpse of something fluttering and beige out of the corner of his eye. Lifting a hand to shield his face from the rain, Dean peered across the road and down a side alley. If he wasn’t mistaken, someone was standing against the shadowed walls. Someone in a trench coat. 

Dean half-ran across the road, weary of cars that may be driving without headlights. He hit the toe of his shoe on the raised sidewalk edge, and took a few quick steps to stop himself from falling. One hand shot out to catch against the nearest building, and it came back grimy and damp. He grimaced and wiped it against his jeans. 

“Cas?” Dean called into the alleyway. No light came from anywhere, and the darkness felt too intense to be a natural product of the night. Trapped between the two walls of the alley, with the dark stretch of road behind him, it seemed as if someone had sucked all of the light away. 

The figure that Dean had seen had vanished. Either that, or it had walked deeper into the alley. Dean took his phone out of his back pocket and turned on its flashlight. The thin stream of light that the phone produced hardly managed to light a foot ahead of him. Dean shook his head, tried to laugh at the absurdity of what he was doing. He began into the alley. 

As Dean’s eyes adjusted, he noticed the scrawl of graffiti along the grimy walls, and the trash bags thrown outside of closed and barred doors. He thought that maybe he could pick out the line of light where the alleyway came to an end, but he blinked and it was gone. 

“Castiel!” Dean called once again, and his voice bounced against the tight walls, coming back to his ears distorted and thin. His footfalls, the raindrops, and the wind rattling between it all covered any other sounds that he may have heard, like the swishing of Cas’s coat as he walked or his breathing. With the darkness thick all around him, and the weather drowning out his hearing, Dean felt he was running out of options. “Cas, buddy. Are you there?” 

The rain picked up, and the wind rushed past him, tugging the sides of his jacket and the strands of his hair forwards. Dean’s arm raised to protect his face. His eyes squinted, nearly closed. Dean tried to take a step backwards, but the strength of the wind barred him from turning or retreating. It whipped louder and louder until it sounded like a screeching digging into his ears. The screeching grew, it circled around him, coming from all directions. It was like nails on a chalkboard, like a million ravens screaming out in pain. 

Dean dropped his head down, both hands coming to clutch at his ears. He hardly registered his phone falling to the ground, skitting against the concrete. He yelled out loud, just to drown out a tiny portion of the screeching with something of his own. The wind knocked Dean onto his knees, the ground wet and hard. His hands clutched his face, his fingers scratching against his skin. His eyes, squeezed shut, felt like they were dripping. He told himself that it was just rain water lapping over his skin. 

“I command you to look at me,” a deep voice boomed, at once coming from everywhere and nowhere. It was easy to discern from the shrieking, however it did not quiet the noises in any way. The wind continued to howl and billow, circling Dean as if he'd been caught in the middle of a tornado. The rain pelted him from all sides, harsh and stinging. His breath caught in his raw throat. He forced his eyes open and raised his head. 

A form as bright as the sun assaulted Dean’s vision, and he blinked. The form was like a tower, no, it was more like a hundred circles, turning around inside of each other. Dean blinked again, and when he looked back he realized he’d been mistaken, the form was a great white bird with wings as wide as a plane. No, he saw, no, it was a million small birds, all moving together. Dean could hardly look at it. 

The alleyway had exploded into light, illuminated by the glowing, changing form. Even the trash bags and litter scattered and wet against the concrete shone as if they were holy. The grimy walls reflected a white glow, as if they were at once clean. The puddles in the pavement glittered like white gold, and the raindrops transformed into jewels as they fell through the air. 

The screeching quieted slowly into a low hum, vibrating through Dean’s bones. He lowered his hands from his ears, pressing them instead into his thighs. He blinked, prepared himself, and returned his gaze to the glowing form. It now looked like a human, no taller than Dean himself. The glowing rays behind it, stretching to either side like wings, dissipated into the rain, the light drawing back in. 

As the form drew the light back towards itself, the alleyway began to darken again. The glow receded like the shoreline, pulling away from the walls and the rain gently, as if it kissed each ugly thing as it left them. The wind died down, and the rain let up; Dean slumped to the side, his hip landing heavily against the ground. His eyes dropped closed as the air rushed from his lungs. He felt like he’d been running for days. 

Perhaps he’d just sleep here, for a few minutes. Just a brief stop to rest his eyes. Dean began to fall sideways, letting his body relax. 

A strong hand caught him around his shoulder, pulling him back to sitting. A second hand clasped underneath his chin, tilting his face up. Dean did not worry. He found he trusted the hands that held him. 

“Look at me, Dean” 

Dean’s eyes fluttered open. His thoughts were slow to come. The world in front of him took a moment to come into focus. 

“Cas.” Dean smiled. “I thought I saw you. Where did-” He faltered, forgetting what he’d been about to say.

Cas’s hands held him steady. “You may feel groggy or tired, but you should try and stop yourself from falling asleep. You are recovering from seeing my true form.” 

“Your what?” Dean mumbled. Cas’s hand was warm against his cheek. The rain and the wind hit against him as cold as ever, but they were easier to ignore with Cas’s warm hand right there. 

“My true form.” Cas repeated. “You forget that I am, above all else, an angel of the Lord. There are rules for me to follow, standards I should uphold.” His hand slipped slightly away. “Standards that do not include accompanying you on a hunt.” 

Castiel took a step back, releasing his hold on Dean. He tilted his head back, gaze floating up towards the dark sky. Dean wavered and caught himself with the palm of his hand against the rough ground. 

“The angels already talk poorly of me,” Castiel continued, speaking to the sky. “They say that I am growing too close to you. They question my loyalty. They call what I choose to do ‘undignified,’ and I fear they may be right. I’ve become too comfortable here, pretending like I’m human.” 

“Is it so terrible to be human?” Dean asked. Cas’s trench coat billowed around him in the breeze, drawing Dean’s eyes. “Most of the angels I know are dicks, Cas. Do you really wanna be like them?” 

“They’re all I have,” Castiel answered, his voice nearly lost under the wind and rain. 

“That’s not true, Cas.” Dean tried to stand, but his legs felt bloodless underneath him. “You have me.” 

Cas’s expression when he lowered his gaze to Dean was one of pure distrust. “Don't lie to me, Dean.” He bent down in front of Dean once more, his face somehow bright against the darkness of the alleyway. “How you treated me at the bar, I felt invisible. You disregarded me and my abilities. I was nothing to you.” 

Dean sputtered, a hundred different explanations trying to rush from his mouth. “The barista was a shifter! I didn’t want to tip her off to us, that’s why we weren’t talking ‘bout the case. I was working her, Cas, I swear. It wasn’t about you.” 

Castiel bristled, and Dean grabbed him by the front of his jacket to stop him from pulling away. “I mean, it wasn’t about me choosing her over you. You’ll always have me. Hell, you’re stuck with me, even when you don’t want me. When Earth gets boring and you decide that you want to go and hang out with your feathered friends, you’ll have me interrupting you and calling you back here.” 

Cas’s face melted into an apologetic grin. The otherness that had surrounded him, the power and strength that had been wafting off of his presence, seemed to blow away with the wind until he felt like Cas again, like the bee-loving, Netflix-watching, awkward human-angel that Dean had grown to know. He lifted one hand towards Dean’s forehead, offered him a shy smile, and zapped them both from the alleyway. 

Dean touched his hands greedily to the world around him, trying to determine where Cas had dropped him. Into the Impala, he realized. His hands had found her steering wheel. Something small was pressed between Dean’s thigh and the seat—he shifted his weight to grab it, and found that Cas had managed to transport Dean’s phone back with him as well. 

Baby’s engine roared to life, her headlights flickering on and illuminating the gravel ahead. It wasn’t until Dean turned to look over his shoulder as he started backing up that he noticed Cas sitting in the passenger seat. He startled, swearing under his breath. “You’ve gotta let me know when you’re there, man.” 

“I’m sorry I doubted you, Dean,” Cas said, making sure that his eyes were locked with Dean’s the entire time. 

“‘S fine, buddy,” Dean said quickly. He pulled his eyes away from Cas so that he could watch the road as he backed out of the parking lot. “I should’a let you know what I was doing.” 

“No, the issue was with me.” Cas wrung his hands in his lap as he spoke, his gaze pointed out his window. “I used to be so sure of my role in everything. Now, sometimes, I don’t even know who I am.”

“You’re Cas.” Dean supplied easily. “You’re a soldier, and a warrior, and one frickin’ terrifying angel when you wanna be. I’m very aware of that now.” 

Cas made to interrupt, probably to apologize. Dean pushed on. “But whenever you don’t want to be any of that, you can come to me. With me, you’re Cas. You’ll always have me. You’ll always know the you that you are with me.”

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Next chapter will be a human!Castiel AU that I actually wrote a while back when I had the urge to write something fluffy. It turned, unsurprisingly, into more angst than fluff. Talk to you then!


	10. coney island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 9: coney island 
> 
> Twenty years ago, Dean and Cas were in love. Now, Dean has come back to say he's sorry for leaving, but it may be too late. 
> 
> (Yes, I _did_ mean to write fluff when I wrote this. No, I don't know what happened.)

> The question pounds my head  
>  What's a lifetime of achievement  
>  If I pushed you to the edge?  
>  But you were too polite to leave me  
>  And do you miss the rogue  
>  Who coaxed you into paradise and left you there?  
>  Will you forgive my soul  
>  When you're too wise to trust me and too old to care?  
> 
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, coney island

  


* * *

  
Dean cupped Castiel’s cheek in his palm, and suddenly he could have been back to twenty years ago, fresh out of college, the cocky owner of a shiny law degree and an unending supply of unbacked confidence. He wished he could turn back the clock, erase the lines from underneath Castiel’s eyes, see him again as he had been then. Be loved by him as he had then.

Dean’s thumb stoked down Castiel’s cheek, over his mouth, and dipped into the crevice between the top and bottom lip. Castiel started to part his lips just as Dean continued his thumb on downwards. Dean’s fingers tingled at the contact, remembering when he’d had even more of Castiel’s skin to touch. He pressed his thumb into the indent in the center of Castiel’s chin, drew it over his jaw, and pulled his hand slowly away. 

The whole time, Castiel watched him from his place on the bed, his eyes the same shocking blue that Dean had never entirely succeeded in forgetting. The lighting in Castiel’s second-story bedroom was dull: grey walls, weak lamp alighting their faces from one side, and daylight muffled by an off-white curtain tugged across the window. Although the poor lighting greyed Castiel’s skin and darkened his hair, it did nothing to dim his eyes. 

But Castiel had always been illuminated by his own private, internal light source. Dean used to joke that, since Castiel kept so much to himself, all of his secrets and unshared opinions buzzed inside of him, loud and numerous enough to emit a light and a warmth. Castiel had called him judgemental and kissed him to shut him up. He’d never been good at taking a compliment. Or maybe Dean had never been good at giving them. 

Back then, their kisses had been often and enthusiastic. Dean had taken them for granted, and had gone nearly the whole twenty years trying, in vain, to find something that would heat his chest in the same way. He wondered what it would be like to kiss him now, if it would be the same after all this time. 

As if he could read Dean’s thoughts, Castiel pushed himself forwards, slipping his hands behind himself in an attempt to push away from his pillow. He lifted his head half way towards Dean’s, then was halted by a racking of coughs which sounded to have started deep in his chest and ended cutting through his throat. He bent forwards, hands in front of his mouth. 

“Hey, buddy,” Dean said softly. He ran his knuckles up and down Castiel’s back, bumping them gently along his spine. “Take it easy? Ok? Let me do the heavy lifting, huh?” 

Castiel’s coughs eventually subsided, and Dean helped him back against the headboard. He pulled at the pillows until they were even under Castiel’s head. Castiel took a long sip from a glass of water. 

“Do you want anything?” 

“I’m just so happy that you-” Castiel took a breath, “that you were able to make it.” 

The way that Castiel looked at Dean, as if he really meant what he said, no strings attached, hurt like a punch. Dean was sure that he didn’t deserve any forgiveness, and especially not this blind affection that Castiel seemed content to give him. 

Maybe Castiel was too sick to remember. Dean had heard of that happening, people so out of it that they forgot who they were talking to, or what year it was. Perhaps Castiel wasn’t even aware of the terrible things Dean had done, all of his selfish decisions. If that was the case, it would only be fair for Dean to excuse himself and let Castiel be watched over by someone who hadn’t hurt him.

“Don’t you have other people who should be here?” It came out sharper than Dean had intended, and his tone wiped the happy smile right off of Castiel’s face. Dean regretted his words immediately. “I didn’t mean— I just-” 

“No, Dean,” Castiel’s hand lifted off of the bankets and found Dean’s hand, pressing down on top of it. Castiel’s skin felt powder dry, but as warm as Dean remembered. He fought the urge to lean into the touch. “No, no one else is going to come by.” 

“You didn’t ever… Fuck, Castiel, you never got married? Or some sort of relationship?” 

The smile had returned to Castiel’s face, but it did not reach his eyes. He looked, in his eyes, as if he was close to tears. “I was waiting for you to come back. Like you sai-”

“Like I said I would.” Dean pulled his hand out from under Castiel’s and instead used it to cover his own face. He’d told Castiel, all those years ago, to wait for him. Dean’s big break—a fancy big-time lawyer gig in New York—had pulled them apart. And Dean hadn’t even considered turning it down. Hell, he’d been happy to get some time away from Castiel. 

If Dean was being honest, he’d assumed that Castiel had felt the same way. After four years together, three of which while struggling to figure out who they were after graduating college, and what they wanted their lives to look like, Dean had thought that their relationship felt strained. It had lost, Dean had thought, its spark. 

Now, after working his way through many more relationships, Dean understood that what he’d determined as the fizzling out of his and Castiel’s relationship had really been the beginnings of comfort and true familiarity. When he’d been younger, he’d been too quickly bored. He’d given Castiel up for the next shiny thing that had passed in front of him. 

When he’d told Castiel to wait for him, Dean had meant it as more of a politeness than a promise. He’d turned away from Castiel without a second thought. 

“Do you remember, in the kitchen?” Castiel asked quietly. 

“Yes, I remember.” Dean dropped his hands from his face, eyes still closed. He was picturing the scene in the kitchen. Probably, Castiel was doing the same. 

Although there had been many memories made in the little kitchen of their two-bedroom apartment, undoubtedly the time that Castiel meant to reminisce was the evening before Dean’s flight to New York. 

It had been a rainy day, stormy enough that Dean’s phone was constantly forced to refresh the airline’s website and check if the flight had been delayed. Dean had decided that, for each hour the flight got delayed, he would drink four glasses of whisky. Castiel had called the decision laughably stupid. 

The plane had been delayed one hour. Dean had drank two glasses of whisky, as a compromise. To make the compromise more agreeable, Castiel had initiated a long and drawn out makeout session against the kitchen counter. 

Dean could still remember the way that Castiel had begun the kisses against Dean’s collar bone, pulling down his shirt to expose the skin with one hand, while the other hand had slipped hungrily through Dean’s hair. Castiel’s timing had always been great, how he would gently ease Dean’s head back just as he moved his mouth onto the column of his neck. 

The kisses clean and warm, Castiel had continued all the way up Dean’s jaw and across his cheek, until finally he’d touch his lips to Dean’s and allowed him to reciprocate. That first kiss lips-on-lips after Castiel had been playing around was the chance for Dean to thank Castiel, to show him all of the affection back in return. 

As such, Dean had pressed deeply against Castiel, moved them together, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s back and angling his head so that they had fit against each other. The rain pounding against the window had done nothing to cool the warmth emanating from Castiel’s body. 

In that moment, content and slightly tipsy, adrenaline coursing through his veins in anticipation of the airplane ride and of his life starting over, Dean had said it. It had really just slipped out. The first time, he’d hardly even noticed he’d said it. 

Dean had breathed the words into Castiel’s mouth, and followed them with a low hum, and then a whine of disappointment as Castiel had pulled away. 

_What?_ Castiel’s eyes had been wide open, filled with bright joy, as he’d asked Dean to repeat what he’d said. 

Out loud, back in the present moment in Castiel’s bedroom, Dean repeated the same words again. “I said, ‘wait for me to come back to you, Castiel’.” 

“Back then you called me ‘Cas’.” Castiel ran a light finger down Dean’s arm, asking silently for Dean to lower his hand back to him. Dean complied and placed his hand down to rest beside Castiel’s atop his blankets. Castiel slipped his fingers loosely between Dean’s. 

“You’re right. I did call you that.” Dean mumbled, he looked down at Castiel’s pale face against the white pillows, and found himself missing the person who had kissed him with such love and passion in their tiny kitchen. Perhaps that person no longer existed. If he didn’t, it would only be Dean’s fault. 

“Do you remember how I answered?” Castiel asked softly.

Dean closed his eyes once more, and allowed himself to fall back into his memories. As the rain had pounded outside, under the white-green fluorescents, Cas had clutched at Dean’s hands forcefully, like a little kid. 

_Well, Cas,_ Dean had prompted, _will you wait up for me? I won’t be gone so long._

 _I’ll wait forever, Dean. No matter how long. Forever._ Perhaps Castiel had been slightly tipsy or adrenaline-drunk as well. 

“Forever,” Castiel said once more, into the stale air of his bedroom. He said it with just as much conviction now as he had then. “And I did. You showed me true happiness. You showed me paradise. I would wait for that forever.” 

“But all this time, Cas, what did you do?” 

“You mean, did I really just sit around all day by the phone waiting for your call?” Castiel asked with more than a hint of sarcasm. He rubbed his thumb over Dean’s where their hands were entwined. “No. I worked at the same bookstore until it shut down, which I thought would be the end of making use of my history degree.” He smiled. “Instead, I was recommended to fill a vacancy at the museum. It’s a good job, good benefits,” he gestured briefly towards himself, “and luckily plenty of sick PTO.” 

Castiel’s smile widened, as if laughing at a private joke. “The best part, though, is being responsible for the artifacts. Have you ever held something touched by a human hundreds of years ago, Dean? It’s like the time between you and them breaks down, and you can feel all of their passion, their liveliness. It’s amazing.” Castiel’s eyes had clouded over, and his mouth fell open into the shape of wonder. 

“No, I haven’t,” Dean thought of the times that his fingers had touched against Cas’s bare skin, and the lightning heat their contact had created. He thought of the way that he’d felt more aware of himself, of them both, than any other time. The full clarity and the edge of love. The longing to never go anywhere else ever again. “I’ve never. But I can imagine.” 

“Oh, there’s nothing that compares,” Castiel said softly. He seemed to have come back from his thoughts, and after clearing his throat, he continued. “I bought this house during my second year at the museum. Until then I’d lived in our apartment on 7th. I like this new house because of the high ceilings, and the spiral carved into the handle on the staircase. I thought that you would appreciate the two-car garage. I adopted a cat three years ago. You may have seen her when you came in.” 

“Cas-” 

“Her name is Phoebe. She likes to sleep against the left arm rest of the couch.” 

“That’s it?” 

“I find it a little offensive that I’ve told you the details of my life and you ask ‘that’s it’.” 

“No, I mean, what about a boyfriend? Fuck, a girlfriend? Someone to keep you company, to keep you warm at night.” Dean motioned wildly around the room. “To make sure that you take care of yourself, and that you go to the doctor sooner rather than later!” 

“I was waiting for you.” Castiel replied sweetly. 

Dean bowed his head forwards, his forehead falling against the mattress as his hands slid up to rest atop Cas’s chest. He closed his eyes tightly, bit his lips to stop the swear words that tried to crawl their way out. Finally, his voice muffled against the bed, he said, “I’m-” 

Castiel ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, his nails scratching gently against his scalp. He didn’t say anything, only waited for Dean to collect his thoughts and try again. He was humming lightly, a song that Dean almost recognized. 

“I’m s-” Dean blew an exasperated sigh out through pursed lips. He pulled back off the bed, only enough to breathe freely again, not raising his eyes. “I shouldn’t have asked you to wait for me. I can’t believe you wasted your whole life waiting-” 

“I didn’t waste my life.” Castiel sounded taken-aback. 

“But you didn’t get to be with anyone, Cas! You were alone and it was my fault and now-” he waved one hand to Castiel’s form on the bed. “Now-” Dean’s voice broke. 

Castiel’s hand rose, so slowly, and gently tilted Dean’s face towards his. “I’m not dying, Dean.” 

“You’re not…” Dean had received the phone call when Cas had been rushed to the hospital. Apparently, he’d never been removed from Cas’s phone as the emergency contact. All Dean had known was that Castiel had collapsed on the street. He’d just assumed… Dean had left in the Impala immediately, completing the six-hour drive in four and a half. He’d thought he was running out of time. 

A weight, like that of a million black holes, lifted from Dean’s shoulders. “You’re not?” 

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry that I didn’t reassure you sooner, Dean. I was unaware that you were under that impression. It must have been quite a burden.” 

“Holy fuck,” Dean breathed. He let his head fall onto the mattress again, now for an entirely different reason. Colours and sounds began seeping back around him: the rustle of windchimes outside, the tapping of little paws against the floor below. A large, shaking breath fled from Dean’s lungs, pulling with it a low laugh. “Oh man, Cas. Shit.” 

Cas’s hand had moved on from Dean’s hair to rub soothing circles into his back. “You would have come all this way just to say goodbye?” 

“I needed to say sorry. I’ve never forgiven myself for how I left you, and for never coming back.” 

“You did come back, Dean. You’ve come back to me.” 

“And this time,” Dean lifted his head to rest his chin against Cas’s side. “This time I’m not going anywhere. I promise. We’ll get you healthy and back on your feet, and then we can really start living, Cas. You and me. I’m never going anywhere else ever again.”

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: Dean still has a ways to go to prove to both himself and Cas that he won't take the relationship for granted this time, but as Castiel heals, so does their understanding of each other. They stay in the house that Castiel bought (the Impala finding a home in the two car garage), and even buy a second cat. Dean starts a little local law practice, and when he isn't busy helping clients, he takes long visits to the museum. No matter how grand the artifacts, there's always only one thing on Dean's mind when he walks through the museum doors; Cas is strict about taking time away from his job, but he can always spare a moment and a kiss for the man he waited for.
> 
> Next chapter: it's the morning of Dean's wedding, and Castiel, the best man, is not at all in favor of the union.


	11. ivy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 10: ivy 
> 
> Dean is about to be married to Lisa, however, his true feelings lie with his stubborn, patient best man.

> I wish to know  
>  The fatal flaw that makes you long to be  
>  Magnificently cursed  
>  He's in the room  
>  Your opal eyes are all I wish to see  
>  He wants what's only yours
> 
> Oh, goddamn  
>  My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand  
>  Taking mine, but it's been promised to another  
>  Oh, I can't  
>  Stop you putting roots in my dreamland  
>  My house of stone, your ivy grows  
>  And now I'm covered  
> 
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, ivy 

  


* * *

  
His dark coat hung to his knees, shifting slightly with each step that he took. His eyes were cast downward, watching his toes as he made his way between the gravestones, forwards, forwards, towards the meeting place. If he lifted his eyes, Dean would be able to tell what he was thinking, what he wanted. Such things were difficult to know when you could only see the top of one's head, even when you knew someone as well as they knew each other. 

Dean kicked his heel back against the thin tree behind him, antsy to get going, to get it over with. He lifted his wrist, pulled back his sleeve, glanced at his watch without really registering the time; he waited for Castiel to finish crossing the cemetery. 

As Cas took his damn sweet time, Dean’s teeth worked into his lip until he almost made it bleed. His foot tapped back and back against the tree. He threw his arms up as Castiel finally approached, hissing “I told you 7:10 am.” 

“It’s 6:55.” Castiel said, his voice deep and scratchy like from a night of little sleep. He crossed his arms over his chest, clasping his dark coat closed. “I didn’t know it was physically possible for you to get up this early,” he quipped. He stopped three feet from Dean, a perfectly acceptable distance to stand apart for two friends having a conversation. Dean took a step forward. They didn’t meet in the middle of a forgotten cemetery to stand at a reasonable distance apart. 

“It’s today.” Dean said. The mountains in the distance bled orange into the sky. “You knew that already, but-” 

“And you’re happy?” 

“Shit, Cas, of course I’m not.” He scratched at the back of his neck, watched the dew shining on the blades of grass at his feet. “Of course not. But I don’t have a choice.” 

“There’s always a choice.” Castiel’s eyes tightened, his expression stern. 

Dean pulled his wrist up and checked his watch violently. Five hours to go until the preparations would really begin. People had been in his house already even when he’d snuck out, setting up big white flower vases and turning all the lights on in the kitchen. “So what, Cas, you’re expecting me to run away with you? How d’ya think that’d go, really?” 

“I think there are other options.” 

“Other options,” Dean laughed in a short, joyless way. “Maybe in another life there would have been an option that ended with us together. Maybe.” He kicked his heel into the ground. To his left, the gravestone of an E.R. Ritchie watched their hushed argument with little sympathy. “I wish it was different,” Dean added quietly. 

“If you truly did wish, you wouldn’t have proposed to Lisa the day after I asked you to move in with me.” 

Somehow, Castiel didn’t get it. Dean had thought this would be easier, that Cas would get why Dean had done what he’d done, as he and Cas were in the same boat, anyways. “You’ve gotta get your head outta dreamland, Cas. Don’t you understand?” 

Castiel’s mouth opened as if he was going to reply. His head shook just slightly back and forth. The sun’s first rays split through the trees, catching like sparks in the tips of Cas’s unruly dark hair. Finally, Castiel’s hand flew to his pocket. He pulled out a small black box, shoved it into the breast pocket of Dean’s coat, then turned on his heels and began to retreat through the cemetery. 

“Cas. Castiel!” Dean called after him. “Lisa’ll expect you at the wedding, ya hear?” 

Cas flipped his middle finger up over his shoulder, his black gloves nearly blending into the skyline. Dean sighed, pulled the ring box from his pocket, and flicked it open. Lisa’s ring, that Cas had been holding onto; its white stone shone a buttery yellow in the sharp morning light. Dean slipped it into a different, deeper pocket. He rubbed his bare hands together, trying to warm them, and watched his breaths form small clouds. When his watch read 7:30, he returned to his car. 

With the Impala’s engine roaring, the car vibrating around him, and Zeppelin blasting through the speakers, Dean was almost alright. He kept his gaze straight ahead, watching the steering wheel turn in his hands and the road stretch out in front of him. He couldn’t let his attention drift to the passenger side, not without picturing Cas beside him, window down, hair tousling gently in the wind, mouth wide as he sang along to the music. 

Castiel hadn’t been a big fan of the classics to begin with. The first thing he’d ever said about rock music had been that their ‘voices sounded unpleasant.’ With time, and many forced listening sessions to learn to appreciate it, Cas had come around. The first time Dean had caught Cas singing along to one of his records had been on a lazy sunday evening, back when Dean had still lived in the crappy little apartment on Laszlo Street. His couch had taken up nearly the entire living room. Dean had left Cas to grab them both a drink. He’d come back to Cas stretched out with his head on the arm of the couch, eyes closed, singing softly to “Whole Lotta Love.” 

Without really thinking about it, Dean fast-forwarded tracks until the same song played through Baby’s speakers. He sang along loudly, the words rumbling from his chest. He pulled into the driveway of his house like that, and kept singing as he pushed the front door open and stomped his boots off. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Lisa greeted him once Dean had made his way into the foyer. She came to his side, brushing his hair back from his face before kissing him on the cheek. 

“Am I?” Dean asked, roughed than he’d meant to. 

“I hope so.” She stepped back from him, holding him by the shoulders and she moved to meet his gaze. “I’ve heard that today is supposed to be the happiest day of our lives.” 

“Lots to do yet.” Dean said shortly. Lisa stared him down, trying to read him. _She has no way to know about Castiel_ Dean’s thoughts circled on loop. 

“Speaking of what to do, why don’t you take this old thing off.” She pulled at the collar of his flannel shirt, visible under his open jacket. “Our clothes for the ceremony are laid out in the bedroom. Why don’t you go get changed while I see if there’s anything I need to do in here.” 

Dean caught Lisa’s hand and took it from its place against his chest, lifting it to his mouth and kissing her engagement ring. He nodded, managing a smile in her direction before turning away. Behind him, she began to move through the house, asking time after time if any of the workers needed help. Dean let himself tune her voice out as he slipped into the bedroom. 

It was less of a sanctuary than he’d hoped. In every direction, he was only reminded of his future, the one he was choosing by marrying her. A framed picture of them on the windowsill, their sweaters hung up together on the row of hooks, her makeup by his comb—everything told the story of their relationship. Everything only made him want to close his eyes and sink into the bed and sleep until everything was over. Wakeup as a kid once more.

Not that he could even lay down on the bed. Clothes were covering the sheet, laid out and waiting as Lisa had said. Dean took off his layers of shirts, and let them fall to the floor. He plucked his button up and suit jacket from the bed, putting them on in quick succession. Even though they’d been made to his measurements, the shoulders still felt too tight, the neck too high. The discomfort made a red wave of anger curse through him anew. 

Dean tried to take a deep breath. He let his head fall back, watched the ceiling fan spin, and dropped to sit on the now-empty side of the bed. He tried again to take a calming, deep breath. Damnit, that meditation crap Sammy was always on about never worked when it needed to. 

A voice that had once put Dean at quicker peace than any form of liquor sounded from the house’s entryway, soft over the distance. Now, instead of calming, that voice made Dean’s pulse jump and his fingers curl. Castiel had arrived. Dean’s watch told him that the time had somehow become 9:30 am, and Castiel had arrived, because he had a place in the ceremony, because Dean had thought he’d want Cas there. Now he wasn’t so sure. 

Castiel’s voice floated through the closed door, speaking sweetly. He’d moved closer. His words were hard to make out, his deep voice not made to break through walls. The sound of Lisa’s answer, then her light footsteps towards the side door, the thing sliding open, and then coming closed once more was enough information for Dean to get by on. 

He tapped his socked toes against the floor, his whole body wanting to move but unsure what to do about it. He stayed seated on his bed, his bed that he shared with Lisa. He brushed the tips of his fingers along the material of her dress, laid out on top of the sheets. He traced across the lines of white lace with his eyes as the door to the bedroom swung open. 

Castiel— because of course it was Castiel—stepped up to Dean and waited. He waited with an intense air of importance that wafted across Dean and nearly forced him to flip his attention immediately upwards to Castiel’s watching face. Instead, he managed to drag his eyes up slowly, scanning across the few loose roses Castiel clutched in his hand, the swipe of makeup over one of his eyes, the tight set of his lips. 

“Bridesmaids got to you, I see,” Dean said, his voice flat. 

“They certainly did not share your aversion to me.” 

“I’ve been busy planning a wedding, Cas.” Dean flipped his hand towards the wedding dress beside him by way of example. Outside of the window, colours visible through the thin curtain, the archway and rows of chairs were being arranged in the garden. The people setting up moved like ants, back and forth, never stopping. Everything they had to do was clear and obvious. How Dean wished he was one of them. 

“How was the cake tasting, or making the guest list? Was it hard to know where to seat all the guests?” Castiel asked as he paced towards the dresser. “Oh, wait.” He turned back to speak directly to Dean. “You had Lisa do all of that alone.” 

“What do you want me to say here, man?” Dean’s throat had been tight since he’d woken up, like something was stuck right where he was supposed to be able to swallow. He ghosted his fingers over the tight spot, trying to relax it away. A wall of light blue passed by outside the window—the bridesmaids, in their dresses. Somewhere, Lisa was getting ready, getting ready to marry him. 

“I want to know why I’ve become dead to you.” 

“Cas, please.” Dean wiped his hand over his eyes. “Another time, please.” 

“Why don’t you answer my calls? My texts? Other than this morning, we haven’t spoken in weeks. I’m the best man, and I didn’t even know what you expected me to have prepared until Sam texted me! We used to see each other every day, Dean. What changed?” Cas leaned back against the hardwood dresser, the back of his head reflecting in its mirror. His fingers grasped over its edges. “Why did we change?” 

“You know why, Cas.” Dean said between his teeth. 

“What, because if you’d been around me as much as usual, you would have remembered who you actually want to be with?” 

“Don’t tell me what I want.” Dean stood from the bed. 

Castiel visibly restrained himself from rolling his eyes. He turned his shoulder, reaching for the wispy white fabric of Lisa’s veil where it hung from the top of the mirror. 

“Cas, don’t-” 

Castiel leveled his eyes at Dean, as if saying _make me_ , and when Dean’s mouth stayed shut, he let the veil fall over his head. He tugged it gently into place, the longer back section with the details in lace and jewels, and the lighter fabric laying over his face. 

“Tell me you don’t want me,” Cas dared. His blue eyes shone like stars through the veil, framed by his dark eyebrows. He looked like an angel, like he would stay forever the same, like he was too good to be touched, too good to be true. He also looked a bit ridiculous, with his hair spiking against the fabric and his black suit in distracting contrast with the white veil, but that was besides the point. 

Cas had been right, of course. Without him around, Dean had been able to convince himself that he could be happy with Lisa. He’d pictured a life for himself, for the first time in a long time, that didn’t include Cas at every turn. He’d started to feel okay with it. 

As soon as Dean had seen Cas walking through the cemetery, all that he’d managed to convince himself about that future had gone up in smoke. He thought he’d be able to have Cas at the wedding, with everyone else around. They hadn’t been supposed to be alone, in Dean’s bedroom. Cas wasn’t supposed to have put on the veil, to look so long, unblinking, into Dean’s eyes. 

They really shouldn’t have been standing so close together. Dean had hardly noticed taking the steps away from the bed to arrive in front of Cas. Now, their faces were close enough together that Dean’s shallow breaths rippled the fabric cascading over Castiel’s face. 

“Tell me,” Castiel repeated, whispering, “that you don’t want me.” 

Dean’s hands found their way onto Cas’s shoulders, wider and taller than Lisa’s. He drifted them up towards Castiel’s face, hiking up the veil, scrunching it in a way that he was sure, in the back of his brain, he wasn’t supposed to do. He placed one palm onto Cas’s exposed cheek, feeling the scratch of his stubble and the cut of his jaw bone. 

The air in the bedroom was like thick putty, pushing against Dean’s every movement. His eyes were having trouble focusing. His thumb stroked over Cas’s lips. He thought he heard Lisa’s voice from somewhere outside. The light seemed to have lowered. Surely, he could hardly see. 

“Tell me-” 

“I can’t,” Dean said. “I can’t say that, okay?” He let his head fall forwards, resting it in the crook of Castiel’s neck. The veil tickled against his ear. “But I have to do this anyways.” 

Cas sighed heavily. He dragged on hand over Dean’s shoulder, rubbing once up and down the back of Dean’s suit jacket. “Okay.” He said, then he moved away, forcing Dean to support his own weight once more. Dean swayed from one foot to the other. 

The veil was off of Castiel’s head, smoothed out, and hung back on the mirror before Dean had managed to remind his eyes that the room was, in fact, bright enough to see in. 

“Okay,” Castiel repeated. He picked the loose flowers that he’d brought in up from the dresser, and pressed them into Dean’s hand. “I’m not going to stay and watch you make this mistake, Dean. I love you. I’m sorry that that’s not enough for you.” He brushed a hand through his hair smoothing it back down, then touched the door handle. 

“Congratulations on your wedding,” he said, fake-brightly. And then the door was opened, and he was gone. He was gone. Dean sat back on the bed, his face in his hands. The chime on his phone, counting down hours until the ceremony began, chimed once. A ripple of laughter drifted through the closed window. Dean allowed himself five minutes to grieve, then he stood, slid his tie from the dresser, and continued to get ready. He couldn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror as he flipped his shirt collar up and settled the tie around his neck.

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Any thoughts?
> 
> Next chapter, Castiel tries to live in the moment and Dean attempts to leave a store without paying for his item.


	12. cowboy like me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 11: cowboy like me 
> 
> Dean flirts with a cashier, and for once, Cas finds that he doesn't mind.
> 
> Consider this my take on their dynamic in the Tombstone episode (13x6).

> Now you hang from my lips  
>  Like the Gardens of Babylon  
>  With your boots beneath my bed  
>  Forever is the sweetest con
> 
> I've had some tricks up my sleeve  
>  Takes one to know one  
>  You're a cowboy like me
> 
> And I'm never gonna love again  
>  I'm never gonna love again  
>  I'm never gonna love again
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, cowboy like me

  


* * *

  
Dean’s back had always been a sight to behold — lean muscle, broadened over the years, now as usual covered in layers of shirts and a coat. But as he straightened it and rolled his shoulders back, leaning one hand onto the counter of the poor cashier, he became a version of himself that Cas hadn’t seen in a while; he became a glimpse of the old Dean, who knew he was pretty and wasn’t scared to take advantage of it. He became the Dean that Cas had first fallen for. 

Cas leaned his own elbow against an empty spot on one of the metal shelves, tilting his head to position his gaze. He let his attention to Dean’s every move play obviously, unbothered. If any of the few other customers in the store noticed his staring, they would surely only follow his gaze and commence in staring, themselves. 

Dean’s voice drifted in and out of Cas’s understanding, too far away to hear his exact words through the ambient noises of the store. Castiel let his mind wander, running through the lyrics of the last song Dean had played in the Impala, tapping his fingers against his thigh to the rhythm. There were no worries tugging at his thoughts, not at the moment. For just this second, frozen in time, he let himself focus on the simple and present things. 

The holes in the shelf, little ones, perfectly circle, at the end of each panel, began to dig into Cas’s wrist. He leaned over more, trying to nudge the holes under his sleeve where they wouldn’t scratch at his skin. His arm, having been moved forwards about two inches too far, hit against a bag of cheddar cheese potato chips and tried to knock the whole row of them to the ground. Castiel leaned quickly to catch them all. They swished into his arm as if they felt sorry for him.

With the chips back in order, Cas flicked a worried eye towards Dean. His back remained relaxedly held, his posture not giving the slightest hint that the noise of several bags almost hitting the ground had thrown him off his game. Of course, Castiel should have known. Dean was more of an expert than that. Simple fix: the chips back on the shelf. Simple day with simple fixes. Cas filled his lungs with a slow breath of the warm shop air. For now, life or death problems were nowhere near to them. Nowhere in the vicinity.

If they’d been a normal family, with mundane tasks and commitments, perhaps they would be on their way to the mountains for vacation. What would Cas, as a human stopping between stretches of driving, be doing? Looking around, probably. Humans seemed to enjoy browsing. Castiel took in Dean’s beautiful back once more before moving himself on deeper into the little store; he could only take four paces away from the chip bags before he reached the back wall. 

He ducked his head to read the labels off of a short freezer, charmed by the faded images of rainbow popsicles and ice-cream sandwiches. The cold that came from within the freezer did not pain Castiel, as temperatures hardly affected him. It did, however, send a pleasant tingling sensation across his hands. He picked up a box from within out of the want to continue on with the sensation even after closing the freezer. He held the box lightly, fingers scratching against beads of ice. 

He didn’t bother to look at the box he was holding until he’d taken a few steps away from the freezer and had stopped before a row of colourful candy bars. The brand name was terribly ironic, and Castiel couldn’t bring himself to return the box to the freezer even though the chill from the cardboard had begun to fade. 

Clutching the box of ice-cream bars in one hand, looking forward to showing it to Dean, to hearing his laugh or quick joke on it, Castiel traced the lines of the store back towards the cash register. He emerged from between shelves of flavoured gum and shiny bags of candies, shuffling past a woman in a fluffy coat who was reading a newspaper. The sun, making a rare appearance through what Castiel knew was a grey sky, shone through the only window to cast a line across Dean just as Cas got him back in his line of sight.

The operation, it appeared, was going well. Dean’s tone suggested interest, approval. He spoke slowly, letting the vowels linger in the air. He complemented the cashier’s haircut, and when her hands twitched up to pull at her ponytail, he shifted seamlessly to noticing her painted nails. Judging from the cashier’s pink cheeks, she was only a few moments away from either giving Dean what he wanted or from throwing him out of the store. 

This was the old Dean, through and through. He had made his way like this, flirting, smiling. Anything to get a free drink or bite to eat, as money had been scarce and motel rooms more expensive than they had any right to be. Castiel had sat through many a complaint. Now, with law-cheating credit cards and free boarding in the bunker, Dean hardly needed to fall back on this tactic. That didn’t mean he didn’t like to dust off the old charms every once in a while. 

Cas wondered if he should be more concerned than he was. There had been a time when seeing Dean like this, shamelessly flashing his captivating grin and batting his eyelashes at some poor woman, had sent Castiel’s jealousy off of the charts. As far as human emotions went, jealousy was one that had been much too easy to learn and unbelievably hard to avoid. Paired with love, especially, jealousy had caused him as much pain as any battle. 

There was no point to jealousy here. Castiel knew that as soon as they exited the store, Dean would be his again, the cashier nothing but a memory. He knew this as he knew that the box in his hand was cold, and that the ground below him was slightly sticky. He knew Dean’s devotion to him as if it was something tangible, and at times, it was. They would walk back out under the cloud-dotted sky, back towards the Impala, and at some point, Dean’s hand would brush against Cas’s shoulder, or his upper arm would bump slightly into Cas’s. There would be a touch, because Dean’s love language was contact. And Dean was his. 

So there was nothing to worry about, here, and nothing more sinister to focus on. Castiel could let himself forget, could focus on the ridiculously bright candy packages, or the laughing child a row over. He could let his thoughts stretch outside of the store, listen for the rumble as cars pulled in and out of the gas pumps. He could let himself be nothing, nothing, with the complete trust that Dean would retrieve him and bring him back to the world. There was a peace, in the gas station dollar store, that rebounded off of the white walls and traded between the beige and orange tiled floor. 

With the ice-cream bars hugged against his chest, Castiel leaned against the side wall, his eyes fluttering nearly closed. The ray of sunlight had stretched, fallen across his toes. Dean’s light words filtered like honey through the air. The cars outside made low noises like the tide lapping on the shore. The door opened, a bell tinkling with the motion. 

Ah, it had been opened by Dean, who now stood half-in and half out of the store, face turned to Castiel, grin stretched across his face, his “purchase” held tightly in one hand. Castiel felt his lips move to reciprocate the smile. He found his feet taking a step forward. 

“Whaddya got there?” Dean asked softly, voice so different than the one he’d used with the cashier. 

“Oh!” Castiel held the box forwards, and flipped it so Dean could read the words. 

The smile lines on the outside of Dean’s eyes deepened. He took the box from Cas’s hand and waved it to the cashier, “perfect fit for an angel, don’t you think?” He called to her, causing her to blush once more and nod her head. She would think, Cas assumed, that Dean was referencing her. He and Dean, however, both knew that when Dean said “angel,” there was only one person he was talking about. 

Without paying for the ice cream, Dean led them all the way out of the store. Castiel used some of his grace to place the same amount of foregone cash into the cashier’s tip jar. Outside, the grey light turned everything to shades of black and white: the car tires, the pavement with splotches of dripped gasoline, and the shining body of the Impala. 

Even Sam, leaned against the passenger-side door, reading something on his phone, appeared in monotone colours. Cas started towards him, but Dean caught at his elbow, pulling him to the side. It was the contact that Cas had been waiting for, and he leaned into it, allowing Dean to lead him a ways down the side of the building. 

They stopped beside a potted tree, the young plant only about three feet tall. The needles, beginning green closest to the stem, were faded to a dull brown at their tips. Castiel let his fingers fall to touch the tree, and the green slowly seeped up to cover all of each needle. Dean moved in beside him, their arms touching all along one side. He waited, breathing softly, hovering, patience ebbing. 

“It needs more sunlight.” Castiel muttered. “It’s hard for the sun to reach it here.” 

“Cas,” Dean said, hovering the thing he’d gotten from the store up towards their faces. “You remember where we’re goin’, right?” 

“We are on our way to investigate a murder in Arizona.” 

“Yeah, sure. But do ya’ remember what I said about this place specifically?” Dean asked, and if Cas hadn’t remembered he would have been able to guess from the glow behind Dean’s eyes. 

“I believe you said it’s a cowboy town.” 

At the word “cowboy,” Dean’s grin returned and he lifted his hand so quickly that he knocked it into the top of the little tree, causing the needles to shake in the air. “Yes. And every good cowboy needs one of these,” he said. 

The thing in his hand, the object he’d flirted his way into getting for free, was a tan cowboy hat, obviously made of plastic that was supposed to look like hay. It had a red band just above the rim. Castiel tilted his head, hardly containing the joy that flooded to his heart. 

“Do ya’...” something about Dean’s voice was off. “Do you wanna try it on?” 

Oh, oh. Dean was nervous. Castiel could fix that. He took the hat from Dean’s hand and placed it onto his own head, fairly certain that he was doing it right based off of the movies that Dean had made him watch. Or perhaps not quite, as Dean chuckled and leaned forwards to help him adjust it. 

“Okay, maybe it does look a bit tacky like that,” Dean moved closer to pull the red band from the hat, balling it up and shoving it into his pocket. Their chests were nearly touching. “Alright, that’s better,” he breathed. 

“Is it?” Cas tried to catch a glimpse of himself reflecting off the metal siding. “I’m your huckleberry,” he murmured to himself, repeating a line from one of those cowboy movies. He turned back to Dean in time to watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed thickly. 

“Yeah, exactly.” Dean’s eyes were shining with something akin to childlike excitement. Castiel could have stared into them forever. 

Forever, it happened, was ended rather quickly by the horn of the Impala blaring. Dean broke away, yelling at his brother across the parking lot, something about the car being a lady. Cas settled the hat down farther onto his head and followed after him. 

In the Impala, with everyone settled and ready to commence the final portion of their drive, Dean brought their attention back to the ice cream bars that he’d “stolen” on behalf of Castiel. 

“Halo Top! I read about this brand on a health food sight, and I-” Sam started from the passenger side.

“This is ice cream, Sammy,” Dean cut in. “Keep your rabbit-food eating habits out of it.”

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Sam tossed one of the bars into the back seat for Cas. It was, according to the wrapper, birthday cake flavoured. Castiel placed it to the side and leaned forwards to watch Dean biting into his. The expression on Dean’s face turned from happy anticipation to disappointment as soon as the ice cream touched his tongue. 

“Yuck,” Dean frowned. “Ice cream, how could you?” He pulled the wrapper around the remaining ice cream bar and stuck it back in the box. Sam, eating his own bar and hardly stopping himself from laughing. Took the box from Dean and placed it beside his own seat. 

“If you’d let me finish, I would have told you. Healthy ice cream, Dean.” 

‘That can’t be a thing.” Dean grumbled as he pulled the Impala out of the parking lot. He continued complaining, seemingly set to do so for the rest of the drive. But when his eyes landed on Cas in the rear view mirror, sliding up to the cowboy hat that Cas hadn’t removed, Dean’s lips stretched into a grin and stilled. He didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive, only humming pleasantly along to the music. Cas caught his eyes flicking across the rear-view mirror plenty more times, and if he wasn't certain Dean could drive while somewhat distracted (as he'd done it many times before), Cas would have told him to pay more attention to the road.

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're in love, Your Honour. 
> 
> Yes, I do like to take some creative liberties re. Cas's grace and its abilities. 
> 
> Next chapter, I take a song lyric too literally.


	13. long story short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 12: long story short 
> 
> In a hunt gone wrong, Castiel is knocked off of a cliff. He struggles to climb back up, worried that he won't be able to do so fast enough to save the only thing he's always fought for. 
> 
> Content Warning: descriptions of blood and injury, ambiguous ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone!

> And I fell from the pedestal  
>  Right down the rabbit hole  
>  Long story short, it was a bad time  
>  Pushed from the precipice  
>  Climbed right back up the cliff  
>  Long story short, I survived
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, long story short

  


* * *

  
A brutal wind knocked Castiel’s beaten body into the cliff side. His hands stung with the cold, fighting to grasp between the cracks in the rocks, holding himself to the cliff face. Far below him, ocean waves crashed together as loud as thunder. The chilled, salty spray that was sent into the air with each wave blew in the wind, reaching all the way up to beat against Castiel’s back. His trench coat was soaked. He cursed his luck at having been so close to the drop-off when the demon had lunged at him.

The heavy coarse material of his trench coat, with the added weight from the sea spray, was nearly dragging him down on its own. Castiel shook one hand away from the rocks, moving his shoulder around in an attempt to remove the sleeve. He used the rock wall to brush against, forcing the coat off of his one side. He had to push hard to force the material off of him, it being sticky and wet. He shoved his shoulder against the rocks until he was sure they would leave red marks. 

The coat finally fell from his one side, and immediately caught in a gust of wind, pulling Castiel around so that his back pressed to the cliff face, his face exposed to the wind. The view downwards was dizzying, even though he’d known what to expect. The ocean was far, far below, white-caps like bubbling dashes of white across a wine-dark abyss. It stirred and thrashed, as if the water itself were alive. 

The wind whipped against Castiel’s face, cracking through his lips and forcing a taste of the ocean into his lungs. He coughed, ducking his chin towards his chest, while he shook his arm where the coat was still clinging to him. Eyes closed, Castiel turned his face to press one cheek to the cliff face, shielding the most of himself that he could. One hand clinging to the rocks until his fingers were numb, he shook the other arm out violently beside him. The sleeve of the coat slowly, brutally fell towards his wrist. 

With one last shake, Castiel let the coat go. The tan trench coat, which Dean had saved for him and kept in the Impala after Cas had died, which had belonged to Jimmy Novak, who had given up everything for Castiel to have an earthly body, fell into the abyss. It billowed as it caught in the wind, and for a moment, it appeared to float back upwards. The return was short lived: the soaked coat dropped away, and sank steadily towards the ocean, seemingly untouched by the swirling wind. It became nothing but a blot of light in the darkness, and then, as it dipped against the ocean, it became tinier and tinier as it sank below the freezing water. 

There was no time to waste mourning a piece of fabric. Castiel feared he was too late already. He sprang back around, propelling himself with a new rush of adrenaline up the cliff side, reaching his arms, digging his fingers into any holds that he could find. His breath forced from his lungs in desperate gusts, creating white clouds of air that were quickly whisked away by the swirling winds. 

His wet hair stuck to his forehead in dripping tendrils, every so often causing beads of water to drip past his eyes and down his cheeks. He hadn’t spared a moment to mourn, hardly even to think. But if he was too late, if he did have a reason to mourn… Castiel shook the thought from his head and tried to focus the panic into making his arms and legs work even faster. The demons had known they were coming, and there had been too many of them. Castiel should have known. If he’d still had his full powers, he would have known. 

If Dean was dead, it would be Castiel’s fault. There was no one else to blame. Castiel would do whatever he could to bring Dean back, even if it meant sacrificing himself. Especially if it meant sacrificing himself. They would be better, safer, without him. 

But Castiel was getting ahead of himself. The cliff under his fingertips grew slicker as the salt-bitten rain came again and again against it. Castiel’s fingers, numb from the cold and bleeding from the rough rocks, slipped out of a hold, causing the shoulder of the hand that had remained in place to crash into the cliff side. With no coat to soften the blow, the rock scratched mercilessly into Castiel’s arm, cutting into him from the top of his shoulder to his elbow. He hissed out a breath between his teeth. 

Castiel didn’t bother using his ebbing grace to attempt to heal himself. He lugged himself back into position against the cliff face, wiped his wet fingers against his wet thigh, and reached up again to find a deeper hold. He ignored the stinging in his hurt arm. He told himself it was only the cold of the wind and the rain. 

By the time Castiel’s fingers felt the top of the cliff face, he had fallen against the rocks many more times. His scratches were bleeding, his white dress shirt soaked in salt water and sticking to his shaking body. The tips of his fingers scratched against the top of the cliff, trying to find a hold to use to pull himself up. 

He pushed with his legs, managing to land with his chest on the surface, and pulling himself ungracefully forwards. His arms were as heavy as lead, dragging unhelpfully against him. Although he’d struggled for so long to move upwards, Castiel felt as though he was lowering himself down into Hell. He’d never felt so heavy and suffocated as he did now. 

For a moment, with his body heaped onto clifftop, Castiel couldn’t move. His fingers tangled in the short, sparse grass underneath him, his face pressing into the ground. Each breath that he took rattled into his lungs like it would be his last. What had he been fighting so hard for? The ocean below crashed loudly against the cliff face. Seagulls called from overhead. Would it be so terrible, to just lie here a while? 

“Cas.” 

A voice called his name softly underneath the whipping wind. Castiel smiled into the ground, the voice sending a spiral of warmth through his chest. He knew that voice; he was fairly certain that he loved that voice. What a pleasant thing to be hearing. 

“Cas.” 

Louder, this time. Castiel pushed himself over onto his side, facing away from the cliffside, towards the plateau where the hunt had spiraled out of control. The hunt! Images flashed through Castiel’s thoughts: Dean attempting to take on three demons at once, his blade striking one of them through the chest just as the other two jumped at him, Dean knocking back against the ground, blade turning through the air helplessly away from him. And the last thing that Cas had seen, before his own fight had sent him tumbling over the cliff’s edge: one of the demons positioned over Dean’s form, poised to snap his neck. 

Castiel frantically drew himself up off of the ground, stumbling onto his feet. His whole body protested the movement, aching and tired. Through the moonlight, he pushed forwards, fighting against himself, fighting to stay awake. He listened for the voice, but it didn’t come again. He moved towards where he’d watched Dean go down, heart spiking in fearful anticipation. 

His ankle hit against something soft, and Castiel nearly toppled over onto Dean’s body. He managed to angle himself to fall to Dean’s side, bringing one hand at once to ghost over Dean’s wrist, checking for his pulse, and the other hand finding his mouth to feel for breaths. 

Castiel could have cried out with joy at the brush of air that puffed steadily from between Dean’s lips. In the dark, Dean’s face was only an outline, impossible to tell the extent of any injuries that he may have sustained by sight. But he was still alive, which meant that Castiel should be able to save him. 

Should. Would have been able to without a doubt if he hadn’t lost most of his grace. If he hadn’t allowed himself to become so weak. 

Everything. Castiel would give everything he had left to save Dean. No matter what it took. He pulled his soaked dress shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and rubbed his hands together to generate some heat, to awaken his strength. He closed his eyes to search inside of himself, to call for all that he had. To tell himself to use everything that was still at his disposal, no matter how badly he needed it to keep himself alive. Dean needed it more. 

Castiel had been asked to watch over Dean. He’d been asked to do many other things, and failed on most accounts, but protecting Dean, keeping Dean alive, was the one responsibility that Castiel would never abandon. 

Dean’s body was stiff where it lay against the cold ground. Castiel placed one hand on either of Dean’s shoulders, sending one leg over top of him so that he straddled Dean’s torso. He slid his hands over Dean’s chest, feeling more than seeing the torn fabric, the sticky blood from his wounds, and underneath that, the shallow rise and fall of each breath. 

Dean’s shirt was damp and malleable, shaping underneath Cas’s hands as he pressed them down into Dean’s chest. He kept his eyes closed, letting his head knock forwards. He focused on sending health and healing into Dean, trying to burn up the last traces of his grace to do so. He could feel it within him, fighting against his demands, clinging to Castiel. He pushed for it to leave him, to bleed out through his fingers. 

The salty air, having followed him all the way up the cliff, brushed against Castiel, catching in his hair and sending droplets of water down the back of his neck. Above them, the clouds circled audibly, blown in a stirring, challenging wind. Thunder rumbled in the distance. 

Beneath Castiel, Dean sputtered and choked. His breathes grew further apart. Castiel grasped his hands into the wet cloth of Dean’s shirt. He threw everything he had into the saving, the one thing he would always do. The one cause he would be always loyal to. He tried. His hands glowed weakly from his palms, the light more pale and washed out than the golden splendour of older days. 

It wasn’t enough. 

Castiel threw his head back, yelled to the dark, circling clouds: “Can’t you see that I’m trying to do as you asked? Help me! Take me instead! Let me save Dean Winchester.” 

The clouds above rumbled and shook, as if they were plotting, murmuring. The strong wind that was their motor spiraled downwards, shaking around Castiel and sending dust and water droplets spinning through the air. 

Castiel grunted with effort as he tried again to use his dwindling grace to bring Dean back from the brink of death. He could feel his grace inside of him like the last drops of water that refuse to slide down from the bottom of a glass. He curled his hands into Dean’s chest until he was worried that his nails would scratch the skin. His knees dug painfully into the hard ground around either side of Dean’s body. He tried. He tried to rip himself apart to save something greater. 

“Help me!” Castiel called into the abyss of night around them. He leaned back again and repeated his plea to the sky: “Help me save Dean Winchester!” 

The sky broke open violently, as if it had been pierced by an exploding sun. A strike of lightning, fiery and wavering and merciless, shot down from between the spiraling clouds. For a second, everything was shock white. Dean’s cuts became visible, his blood shining silver. A slice had been taken out of his abdomen, reaching from his ribs to his pelvis. His head lay in a puddle of blood. His eyes fluttered in a way that made him look more dead than alive. His skin shone like a ghost’s. 

As quickly as it had come, the light vanished, the darkness pulling back in like water thrown over a fire. The lightning fizzled through the air. It struck its mark, and Castiel’s breath was thrown from his lungs. His insides shook, pulsed, alighted. He opened his eyes and could only see white static. His back felt as if it were on fire. 

The lighting had struck its mark, and its mark had been Castiel. 

Power thrummed through Castiel’s body, awoken by the lightning. He lifted his hands, held them an inch from Dean’s chest, and spread his fingers wide. He called for his grace, and golden light exploded from his palms. It began towards Dean’s chest, and quickly spread through his whole body, winding and twisting like a growing vine. Dean’s form glowed from within, his features blurring until he was a beam of light, until the air around him, the drops of water, the rocky ground, were all a beam of light. 

Castiel’s muscles tensed and pulled, working to control the raw power within himself. His arms shook, out of his control. He was merely the conductor, and Dean the receiver. The wind spun and spun around them, the only thing that could not be turned to light. Castiel’s eyes squinted as he fought to see in the brightness. He finally had to let them close, and allowed the energy to find its own way. 

He knew when it had ended because the withdrawing of the power threw him backwards, off of Dean and onto the ground some feet away. When Castiel looked towards Dean, the returned darkness appeared twice as dark in comparison. He could hardly see his own hand held out in front of his face. Castiel inched his way over the ground, still shaky, unsure if he was dead tired or frantically awake. 

“Dean?” He called, and his voice sounded like cracking electricity. He coughed towards the ground, and tried again. “Dean?” 

“Cas.” Dean’s reply, short and low, was enough to point Castiel in the right direction. He found Dean sitting, rubbing at the back of his head. 

Castiel jumped to run his hands over where he’d seen terrible thrashes in Dean’s flesh. His fingers were met by healed skin. “How do you feel?” 

“Like I was hit by a frickin’ car.” 

“You’re in pain? Where?” Dean felt as if he were in one piece, but maybe Castiel had missed something… 

“No, not in pain, actually. More-” Dean struggled to find his words. “More like my adrenaline has been working way overtime. My hands won’t stop shaking, and my head is pounding like no one's business.” 

“You’ll be okay,” Castiel smiled, sinking down to the ground. 

“Yeah, yeah, I- ...Cas?” 

“Everything will be okay,” Cas mumbled into the ground. The wet rocks were somehow more comfortable against his cheek now than they had been before. His eyes dropped heavily closed. His fingers, which had been tensed, melted gently against the ground. “It’s okay now.” The last of his grace fizzled and died somewhere deep in his chest. Given to a better purpose than himself. "You're saved, Dean." 

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens to Cas after? That's up to you :) 
> 
> Next chapter, Dean hates himself for doing the "right thing."


	14. marjorie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 13: marjorie 
> 
> "Ever since the mark made Cas go crazy, ever since I had to bury him in a Ma'lak box." (Chuck's alternate ending, 15x09. Includes some SPOILERS.)
> 
> Content warning for drinking, allusion to major character "death."

> And if I didn't know better  
>  I'd think you were listening to me now  
>  If I didn't know better  
>  I'd think you were still around
> 
> What died didn't stay dead  
>  What died didn't stay dead  
>  You're alive, you're alive in my head  
>  What died didn't stay dead  
>  What died didn't stay dead  
>  You're alive, so alive
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, marjorie

  


* * *

  
“How do you want me to do this?” 

“Quickly,” Castiel answered. And then, after a moment’s deliberation, “gently.” He stood from the bench, his bound hands held loosely in front of him. Dean averted his gaze. The cemetery, with its greenery and the dark-blue twilight sky above, presented too serene a backdrop to properly suit what they had come to do.

Castiel’s blue eyes, which had always held such trust and clarity within them, were clouded with something unfamiliar and animalistic. Although the multiple sleeves that he wore (his trench coat, his suit jacket, his dress shirt,) covered the mark, Dean knew that it was digging into Castiel’s skin more and more every moment. He remembered, still, what the mark had done when it had been on his own skin, how it had shifted his vision until everything he’d looked at appeared to him like prey. 

“Are you sure you’re ready, Cas? There must… We can wait a few more weeks. Keep looking for another way.” Dean let his shovel fall to the ground, its metal clinking against stray pebbles in the dirt. He wiped his arm across his brown to catch at the beads of sweat. 

Castiel shook his head slightly. “I can’t let myself put you in unnecessary danger. I care too much about you.” 

“You staying around a little longer wouldn’t be unnecessary. Sam’s in the bunker right now, looking through the lore. Just give us a bit longer to find a different solution.” Dean's heavy boot brushed against the loosened ground as he took a step forward. “Please.” 

“Do you remember when you took my angel blades away?” Castiel didn’t wait for an answer. “I hardly let you. I wanted to kill Sam over them, over him taking them from me. Even without them, there are too many ways that I could hurt you, too many ways that I could hurt all of you and not even think twice.” 

“But you’re not at that point yet, Cas. You’re still too… ‘you.’” 

Castiel’s head fell to the side, his sad eyes bearing into Dean’s own. “There is something viscous inside of me, worse than the leviathans. Worse than Lucifer. I can feel it taking over my brain, not just making decisions, but altering my own.” His hands rattled the angel cuffs as he moved ever so slightly closer to the freshly dug grave. “I don’t know if ‘that point’ will come slowly or all at once. And I’m not willing to take that chance. Not with you.” 

“When I had the mark, I still couldn’t hurt you,” Dean said unfairly. 

Castiel rolled his shoulders, settling the trench coat into order around himself. He tipped back his head to take in the sky. The last time he would see the sky. Dean tried to swallow. He brushed at his face with his sleeve again, this time wiping away beads of water that fell begrudgingly from his eyes. 

“I know,” Castiel said. “But I’m not human, and it’s possible that the mark treats me differently. I-” He lowered his head shakily, feet nearly tripping over each other as he threw himself backwards. His back hit against the trunk of a tree, and he pinned himself still. He’d closed his eyes. His arms were shaking in the cuffs. “Get it ready,” he said between clasped teeth. 

Dean obliged, holding the shovel so tightly that his knuckles turned white as he dug the grave deep, deep into the earth. The Ma’lak box weighed too much for him to really be picking it by himself, but he couldn’t ask Cas to help drop his own cage into his own grave. He could hardly even stomach himself doing it. Every movement felt wrong, like he was breaking a promise. 

“I’m going to find a way to bring you back, Cas,” Dean said, to Castiel, who may or may not have been able to hear him through his own stolen thoughts, or to the darkening world around them, or just to himself. “You’ve just got to hold on until I do.” 

He grunted as he heaved the Ma’lak box from the trailer bed and across the grassy ground, letting its back end drag. If the thing was built to contain something as strong as an archangel, surely it could withstand some rough handling.

The weariness of Dean’s arms and the rush of air in and out of his lungs as he worked nearly clouded his mind. He nearly forgot how much he hated himself for allowing this to happen to Cas, when Cas and Sam had found a solution for Dean’s plan to lock himself in the box. With the effort of moving the Ma’lak box into place, he nearly saw himself as a person again, instead of this worthless, incapable failed thing which was letting Cas give up on himself. 

The thump of the Ma’lak box hitting the bottom of the grave broke down the hastily-constructed peace in Dean’s mind, and he remembered what he was doing. He turned and kicked the stump of a fallen tree with his heel. He bent over, supporting himself with his hands on his knees. 

“Dean? Is it ready?” Castiel’s low voice from where he still held himself against a tree. He was fighting the urges of the mark, trying to stay in control. Dean remembered that feeling, and how badly he’d wanted to give into it. 

“Yeah, almost. Hang on a minute.” Dean forced himself to stand straight, pressing one hand against his pocket to check that _it_ was still there. He lowered himself into the grave, opening the lid of the Ma’lak box and checking that everything was in order. Despite Sam’s insistence that, before long, Cas would lose himself to the mark and it would make no difference, Dean had made some additions to the coffin-like box. 

He adjusted the blanket that he’d settled in the bottom, pulling it up against all sides. The small flashlight, full of brand new batteries, was still tucked where he'd put it against the head panel. The metal build of the box, its edges welded together by Dean’s own hands, held an air of desperation and agony. They were Hell to be surrounded by, suffocating and unpleasant. He hoped his little auditions, as unnecessary as they may be, would at least give Cas a fragment of comfort. 

Dean drew the last thing from his pocket. This was the one that Sam had made the biggest fuss over. _He’ll just rip it to threads, Dean. He won’t remember what it is. He won’t care._

What did it matter, if Cas broke the thing? If he eventually forgot how to use it, or who had given it to him, or the meaning that it held? Maybe it would give Cas something to hold on to. “Maybe” was more than enough. 

Maybe the Walkman, and the music within it, would make Castiel’s sentence slightly less agonizing. Dean placed it beside the flashlight, hanging the headphones overtop of it. It was his own Walkman that he’d bought with a pocket full of change many years ago. He’d tried to teach Cas how to use an iPod, but the guy had been better with the older tech. Dean hadn’t been able to stop himself from smiling each time he saw Cas walking through the halls of the bunker, headphones over his ears, Walkman clutched in his hand, mouthing the words to one of their songs. 

Dean had taped extra batteries to the back of the Walkman. As long as Castiel didn't rewind too many times, it should last him a while. Maybe long enough for Dean to find a way to save him.

The cassette tape inside the Walkman was an updated version of the Zeppelin playlist Dean had made for Cas. It had all of the same songs, with some additions that he hoped Castiel would enjoy. Some songs that they’d listened to together, or sung along to on the radio, and some that he didn’t think Cas had ever heard before. Some songs to remind Cas of the world, of things they had done, and others, selfishly, that Dean hoped would remind Cas of him. 

“All-” Dean started. His voice caught and he had to steady himself before he tried again. “Alright, Cas. It’s ready.” He pulled himself out of the grave, let his eyes find Cas across the grass, and nearly broke down. Castiel’s eyes were closed, his mouth pressed into a thin line, his head tilted back against the bark of the tree. He looked ethereal, untouchable in the sallow moon light. He looked like trapping him deep underground as his mind was taken over from within would be the gravest sin one could commit. 

Apology after apology fell from Dean’s lips as he completed the unthinkable, unable to stop the “sorry, Cas. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Castiel didn’t ask him to stop. He didn’t speak at all. He took his sentence silently, stoically. He'd held his hand to Dean’s shoulder from inside the box, his eyes dry and emotionless, but his fingers tight enough to leave a bruise. Dean’s own eyes had dripped tears onto Cas’s chest. He’d nuzzled his cheek into Castiel’s hand. He’d apologized, and he’d apologized again as he’d closed the box. 

The course of whispered apologies had slowly subsided, buried in Dean’s silent tears. Each shovel of dirt that he'd dropped into the grave seemed to suffocate the entire world. No noise came from anywhere, no colour either. Everything was empty.

His throat was raw as he drove the Impala back, the trailer bobbing behind and reminding him, at each turn and each bump, of his failure. Of his misery. He’d ignored Sam’s attempt at a conversation upon returning to the bunker. He’d locked the door to his bedroom and fallen onto his bed and had stayed like that for some amount of days. 

  


* * *

  


Dean sat at the table in the main room of the bunker. It was 12:00 pm and Dean was already three beers into his drinking, which meant that probably he should take at least a small break and maybe drink from one of the water bottles that Sam was always leaving around. Or perhaps it was 12:00am — it was difficult to tell the time of day in the bunker, with no windows to look to — in which case Dean was rather behind. 

Judging from the sandwich that Sam had shoved towards him about half an hour ago, it was more likely closer to lunch time than midnight. Dean eyed the sandwich, with its green lettuce leaves sticking out, and pushed it to the edge of the table with the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt hungry, and he certainly didn’t feel so now. 

He lifted his beer bottle to his lips, unsatisfied by the few drops that dripped down. The empty bottle ended up on the ground a few feet away, split into three pieces. Dean didn’t remember choosing to throw it. He debated rising to clean it up, but his legs felt numb underneath him, and besides, he wasn’t even sure where the broom was. 

He slid his fingers to the chair beside him, and plucked the next beer bottle from the open six-pack that he’d balanced on top of two more closed packs. With a twist, the bottle was opened and brought to his lips. It was half gone before Dean placed it down. He let his elbows rest on the table, his hands clasped together, and pressed his forehead to his gathered fingers. 

The position, from someone else’s perspective, may have looked like that of a drunk man trying to steady his headache. Certainly, from the empty bottles littering the table, it would be an easy assumption to make. But Dean knew, and he was sure that Sam would recognize as well, that Dean had taken the posture to pray to Castiel.

It was something Dean had done daily since he’d returned from the graveyard. Something he did many times each day. Even when he wasn’t actively praying, he was thinking about what he would tell Cas next. He always prayed at a low whisper, his throat cracking from disuse as the prayers were nearly all the words that he spoke. 

“Cas,” Dean began, breath warm against his hands. “I hope you can hear me. I know I told ya’ that I’d take care of myself, and I’m trying. I know you must’ve told Sam to take care of me, because it’s what I would have done in the opposite situation, and because he won’t leave me alone. He keeps trying to give me food, terrible, healthy food like he eats. I’m lookin’ at a sandwich right now with lettuce coming out all sides.” He tipped his head up and blinked his eyes open briefly towards the sandwich in question, so that he wouldn’t be lying. 

It took him a moment to get settled again, nodding his head slowly up and down against his knuckles as he waited for the words to come to him. “I don’t hardly get hungry anymore and I’m startin’ to wonder if this is how you felt all the time, not having to eat ‘n all. I’m not saying I envy you. I miss how much I used to look forward to bacon in the morning.” He trailed off, mind racing with images of Cas sitting at the booth in the kitchen, chatting with Dean as he fried himself bacon on the stove. Dean always poured Cas a mug of coffee, even though most mornings it sat untouched. Dean hadn’t been inside the kitchen since coming back. He didn’t want to face it alone. 

“I know I told ya’,” he started again, “that I’d tend to that stupid plant that you keep in your room, but Cas, I… I still haven’t been able to go in there. I’m pretty sure that Sammy is looking after it. He’s not the type of guy to let a plant die. I’m… I’ll keep trying.” Each day, Dean thought of cracking open the door to Castiel’s room, and each day his hand became pins-and-needles at the thought. He didn’t know what he’d do after opening the door and seeing the dark, empty space. He was sure he didn’t want to know. 

The worst thing was that the room, realistically, wouldn’t even look that different. Cas hadn’t slept, so his bed had always been unused, and he’d hardly had any possessions to either leave behind or take with him. The only real difference would be the knowing that Cas was truly gone. 

“I haven’t found anything yet,” Dean bit into his clasped hands. Other than praying updates to Cas and drinking unrecommended amounts of liquor, the only thing Dean had been able to do was research. He doubted he’d ever read so much in his life; he was digesting books and articles faster than even Sam. The possibility of bringing Cas back, it had attached to him like a vice, squeezing him with need and desperation that drove him to devote hour upon hour to the search. 

“I’m going to keep looking until I do, Cas. I promise. This is my fault and my failure, and I will keep lookin’ until I figure out how to bring you back. Don’t give up, okay Cas? You’ll see that stupid plant again yourself.” He managed to smile against his knuckles. “Alright, that’s all for now. Over and out, buddy.” 

Dean’s arms fell in on themselves and he pressed his forehead to the table, eyes still closed. He almost wanted to sleep. 

“Dean, how long do you plan to go on like this?” 

The rattling of glass shards against the cement floor meant that Sam had found the broom, and that he was cleaning up Dean’s broken bottle. “As long as it takes to bring him back,” Dean said against his arms. 

“We aren’t going to bring him back, Dean. That was the whole point of the Ma’lak box.” 

Dean hit his palm against the table, rattling the empty bottles. “You don’t give up on family, Sam,” he growled incredulously. 

Sam bit his teeth into his lower lip, obviously fighting back a retort. “You aren’t going to find a fix today, then, can we agree on that? But there are people we can save right now, and cases that need our attention. Get yourself cleaned up, and come with me on a vamp hunt in Oklahoma. When we get back, you can look at the books with fresh eyes. It’ll help, even.” 

Dean pointedly lifted the half-full bottle to his lips and took a long sip. When Sam didn’t leave, and only stared at him harder, Dean groaned, “I’ll think about it.” 

“We leave in two hours,” Sam said by way of goodbye. 

Dean sat back against his chair, finishing the rest of the bottle slowly. Maybe he’d help Sam on the vamp hunt. Maybe he’d even do a few more after that, but soon, if he didn’t find a way to bring Cas back, Dean was going to give up. He felt the fact of it open up inside of himself like a breaking dam. 

Someday soon, he would stand down from hunting. Without saving Cas, there was no point. No amount of saved lives would amount to that loss.

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Next chapter, Sam finds a way that he might be able to help push Cas and Dean towards an understanding.


	15. closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 14: closure
> 
> Sam comes across secret letters and realizes that his brother's feeling for Cas may be more complicated than he'd thought. 
> 
> Mentions many plot points from canon and so includes SPOILERS. Dean's letter from around episode 13x01 and Cas's from around 7x23.

> Yes, I got your letter  
>  Yes, I'm doing better  
>  It cut deep to know ya  
>  Right to the bone  
>  Yes, I got your letter  
>  Yes, I'm doing better  
>  I know that it's over  
>  I don't need your closure  
>  Your closure
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, closure

  


* * *

  
Dean and Cas, having mostly made up to each other after their last tiff, had left in the early morning towards Iowa. The drive would take them about eight hours, although Dean had prepared for an overnight if need be. He’d prepared for nearly everything, actually — they had little idea what monster Dean and Cas were heading towards. The woman who had called in the incident to the newspaper had described a baby’s laughter, and the smell of smoke. Her friend had been found dead with blue marks along their arms. 

Sam was planning to drive up on his own in a day or two if they hadn’t yet made ground on the case. Dean and Cas were more than capable of investigating on their own, and they’d all agreed that it would be useful to have someone remain at the bunker to have access to the Men of Letters books. Sam drank his green smoothie down in big gulps as he made his way from the bunker’s kitchen to the main room. A stack of books, selected by him and Cas the night before, were already laid out across the table, waiting to be cracked open. 

Despite the hands-on importance of door-to-door questioning and exploring the scene of the crime, there was still use to be found in good old research. If Sam was honest with himself, he sometimes liked the research better than the kill. It was nice to get the opportunity to flex his skills from university, in whatever way he could. It worked out well, really, as Dean would rather fight some vamps two-on-one with his bare hands than spend a day with the books. 

The case in Iowa, which was decidedly weird enough to warrant an extra news article or two, really didn’t need Sam staying behind to conduct research from the bench. He’d agreed to stay more out of a want to do so than the belief that it was the most useful place for him to be. He probably wouldn’t have stayed -- would have just lugged an extra book or two into the car before leaving with the others -- if he hadn't thought he was helping Cas and Dean out by staying back, as well. 

Sam thunked his now-empty glass onto the table, hovering over top of it to scan across the titles of each book. He rearranged them on the table, pulling the ones he wanted closer to him. A thin paper pamphlet was tucked between the pages of one of the heavy tomes; Sam picked it out and pressed it open as he sat down on a chair. 

He came across a piece of information rather quickly, and without thinking, read it out loud. In the empty bunker, only Sam’s own voice reflected back to him. He rolled his eyes at himself before flicking his phone from his pocket and texting the tip to Cas. He didn’t want to encourage Dean’s habit of texting and driving. 

Sam had grown used to someone helping him research, or at least keeping him company at the table. Cas usually helped him get through the books, reading quickly and quietly, a picture of efficiency. He rarely shared what he found unless he thought it was directly applicable, which meant that sometimes Sam would need to re-skim certain pages. He was still, unquestionably, more helpful than Dean. 

Once all of the police files had been consulted and any hacking completed, Dean was pretty much looking to be done his part of the research. He sometimes picked up a book, but only to flip through it while mumbling the lyrics to a song with his thoughts elsewhere. Dean liked to accompany Sam, he was sure, as he saw it as an extra opportunity to annoy his little brother. Dean would snatch books from Sam’s hand or close pages that he’d been keeping open, just to watch his face turn from annoyance to desperation. 

Dean’s efforts at entertaining himself at the expense of Sam had increased exponentially lately. It was because Dean was avoiding Cas and trying to keep his mind off of it, but if Dean realized what he was doing, he’d certainly never acknowledge it. 

Yes, it was good that Dean and Cas were getting some time alone. Maybe, if Sam had even a smidge of luck left in the universe, they’d talk some things out. Some big things. Some things that would mean Sam could go back to doing things for himself instead of acting as the buffer between his brother and the feelings that he wouldn’t dare say aloud. 

Sam flipped to the last page of the little book, realized that he hadn’t been paying attention for at least the last few pages, and placed it closed on the table near his elbow anyways. He reached towards the center of the table, pressing his palm down onto the top of a large, heavy book and used the pressure to pull it towards him. Its shiny cover squeaked against the table. 

The book, if it could be called that, was at least a foot long by a foot wide, and several inches thick. The cover was solid black, its plastic sheen shining blue and purple. Sam flipped it open and the book flattened itself to a certain page as if it had been waiting to do so. 

Inside of the book, tucked half-way into the binding, was a piece of lined paper. Its edges were uneven, as if it had been ripped away hastily from somewhere else. Judging from the crumpled bit of the paper that Sam could see, it was too white to have been left there by the Men of Letters, not darkened by the time that it would have had. 

But if the paper hadn’t been folded and shoved into the old book by the Men of Letters, then that left only a few possible suspects, and Sam couldn’t imagine either Dean or Cas having any reason to do such a thing. The last time this particular book had been opened… Sam’s gaze drifted upwards as he searched his memory. The last time they’d used this book for research had been on a rugaru case shortly after… Oh. Shortly after Cas and Mary had died. 

Sam pulled the piece of paper gingerly from between the binding of the book. He smoothed the wrinkled paper out atop the book’s pages, flattening along fold lines. He held his breath as he began to read it, unable to shake the feeling that he was imposing on something private, but no more able to stop himself. 

After many false starts scratched out with a dark pen, Dean’s angled scrawl was legible. The lines were oddly spaced, as if written at different times, or in different bursts of thought. 

The letter started very eloquently with “Fuck.” followed by a blank line, and then picked up once more.

> I don’t know how to do this. C’mon, Dean, just write it down. I ~~feel like I’m d~~ think that I miss him. More than I normally do. I ~~miss him more than mom~~. I miss him. I don’t know what to do. 
> 
> There’s something that Sammy told me once, about how he felt when Jessica died. He said that it made him feel a type of sadness that wasn’t crying, wasn’t slow or whatever. He said it was antsy sadness. Sadness that can feel like anger. ~~I’m angry all the time.~~
> 
> There must be a way to get him back, but we haven’t found it yet. If the kid knows how to get him back, if he has that power and isn’t telling us, then I’m going to find a way to rip it from him. He’s going to pay for what he did to Cas, I
> 
> When we burned his body I think I forgot to breathe. I don’t remember the smell of the smoke, or of the gasoline. I think of that night and it’s just his limp body in that curtain, how I had to tie him and leave him atop the pyre. I couldn’t even look at him, lying there on the kitchen table. I couldn’t look at his dead body. Couldn’t believe it was him, even though I saw him die. Fuck. I saw him die. That’s burned into my brain like a constant reminder. I don’t remember watching him burn. I only remember this knowing that he was gone, like a noise in the back of my head. He’s gone. He’s gone. 
> 
> As I prepared him to be burned, I. the world went wrong. He was an angel, supposed to live for fucking pretty much ever. Supposed to outlive me, at any rate. Didn’t he tell me that, even after everyone left, he would still be there? I had to tie his body up. I shouldn’t have had to do that. I shouldn’t have been around to do that. ~~Cas died~~ he’s gone and I’m still here. 
> 
> I think that I said goodbye, before I lit his body in flames. I didn’t mean it. I ~~didn’t~~ don’t want to believe that that’s goodbye. I couldn’t watch as I threw the lighter, either. We’ll find a way to bring him back, and all the rest of them too. We’ve done harder things before. If we can fight God, Hell, we can bring Cas back. 
> 
> I know that I should have done more to stop him. When he pushed past us to attack Lucifer, I could have pulled him back, or gone forwards with him. Sam’s hands were around me, but I could have broken free. I should have. Cas is ~~like~~ family, and I just let him take Lucifer on by himself like that. We left him alone. ~~It should have been me.~~
> 
> What do I do now? So many of my people have died, but it’s never felt like this. I don’t know. I don’t know why I ~~feel so broken~~. I don’t know how to bring him back. What if he doesn’t come back this time. Everything has been taken from me. I don’t know if there’s any point anymore. Why have I been left here? Why do I have to stay? 
> 
> Castiel, if you’ve got your ears on, I’m sorry. I’m going to get you, okay? Just hold on a minute. Don’t get your feathers in a bunch, alright. I’m going to bring you back to me. I need a win, everything’s gone to shit, and the Nephilim baby that you fought so hard for is crazy powerful and we need your help with him. We can’t do this without you. I can’t do this without you. 
> 
> I miss you. 
> 
> I 

As the writing cut off abruptly, Sam had to stop himself from laughing. Dean, somehow, was even less aware of his own feelings than Sam had assumed.

“Oh why oh why,” Sam mocked the letter quietly, “do I feel so sad that Cas is dead?” He folded the letter back along its indents, but didn’t slip it back between the pages as he closed the book. “My good buddy, my best angel pal has been taken from me,” Sam continued as he lifted himself from his chair, “and I’m mourning him like a widow but I still can’t tell why this is hitting me so hard.” 

It was possible to look back now and find humour in Dean’s coping, as Castiel had come back to them. Back when the letter had been written, before they’d known if Cas really had been killed for good, well, Sam had known Dean was going through something. Hell, they all had been. He hadn’t realized, though, that his brother had wished to be in Cas’s place. 

Sam held the letter between his fingers as he walked the distance between the library and Dean’s bedroom. He meant to return the letter to Dean, both to save his brother from having someone else find his despairing ramblings, and to give himself the opportunity to make fun of Dean to his face about it. If Dean and Cas were going to put Sam in the middle of their unspoken feelings, then the most Sam could do was create some amusement for himself from it. He wasn’t allowed to _ask_ Dean about his feelings for Cas, because of some unspoken brotherly agreement, but he could poke fun. 

While on the way to Dean’s room, Sam’s attention was pulled towards the only ajar bedroom door — Castiel’s, left open in his haste, no doubt, to follow Dean out of the bunker that morning. With Dean’s folded letter pulling him forwards like some sort of homing device, Sam entered Cas’s room. He was met, as expected, by nothing. 

Not actually nothing, of course: Cas’s room looked exactly like every other uninhabited room in the bunker, but that was what Sam always found so strange; Cas’s bed sheets were never rustled, his shelves never crowded with any sort of objects. The chair was still overturned as it had been for storage, and the lamp remained unplugged — everything about Castiel’s room felt vacant. No wonder he hardly spent any time in there. 

There wasn’t much _for_ Cas to do in the bedroom, Sam supposed. The angel didn’t sleep, didn’t seem in any sort of need for an abundance of personal space, and was content to do research in the library or leisurely in the kitchen. He resided in the bunker, Sam was certain, out of large part to be around Dean, and as Dean wouldn’t be caught dead in Cas’s room with him, Cas was better off in shared spaces. 

The question of what Cas actually did in this room, then, remained. He certainly did spend at least some time alone there, with last night as just one example. 

It wasn’t that Sam didn’t trust Cas. On the contrary, he would trust the angel with his life. He was, currently, trusting him with Dean’s. However, it hadn’t been so very long since Castiel had stolen the colt right from under Dean’s pillow because he'd believed that he was doing the right thing. Cas’s heart was always in the right place, whereas his choices, occasionally, were misguided. 

Sam pivoted in a slow circle in the center of Cas’s bedroom. If he were an ex-angel of the Lord trying to hide something from his adopted-family of humans, where would he choose? With Dean’s letter tucked into his back pocket, Sam pulled drawer after drawer from Cas’s dresser, each time met only by the dusty bottom of an empty space. 

Giving up on the dresser, Sam lowered himself to his knees and felt around under the bed. He found a spare angel blade and a cracked coffee mug, the latter probably a left over from a former inhabitant. Brushing his hands together to ease the dust off, Sam stood. He shook his shoulders out, and wondered if Cas had just been waiting for Dean to sleep. It wouldn’t have been the first time that Cas had waited for a whole night for Dean. Sam sighed, wondering if he would ever be able to trust as openly as Dean could. 

Out of more habit than any real suspicion, Sam patted his hand against Cas’s single pillow, fluffing out a crease. The pillow made an odd crunching sound. When the sound happened a second time, Sam flipped the pillow over, revealing, underneath it, a manila envelope, thick and stuffed to the brim. Ah ha!

Anger and indignation pulsed to the tips of Sam’s fingers as he pulled the tab of the envelope open. So Cas had been hiding something this whole time… if he was putting Dean in danger by being with him… Sam tipped the envelope over and what seemed like a million hand-written pages fell across the bed, along with a few mismatched pens and pencils. Sam took one of the pages into his hand with enough pressure to crinkle its edges. His eyes scanned madly back and forth, looking for any tell of the type of danger Cas had put them in. 

Oh. Oh. The words across the page stuck out as tired, lonely, and sad. Sam let the page drop away from his fingers. He took a step back, embarrassed to have read it in the first place, when it had so obviously not been for him. After a moment, with his cheeks slightly flushed, Sam picked up a second paper. As he’d guessed, this one was written in a similar fashion, addressed to the same person. Letter after letter, in Cas’s timeless handwriting, starting with the same singular word. 

They were not the letters of a spy, nor of a betrayer. They were, if Sam had to put a name to them, love letters, although not the teasing, passionate letters that existed between Mary and John. These were more like diary entries, addressed to someone never meant to read them. They spoke of one-sided love, of a lover resigned to go on unnoticed. 

The letter in Sam’s grasp now was older than the first, marked in the top corner as written in 2012 — the year after Cas had released the Leviathans and they had taken over his body. Dean had been broken after Cas’s death then, too. He’d lugged Cas’s dirty trench coat around with him, moving it into the trunk of each new car they drove. 

This letter, then, was from around when they’d found Cas again, had helped him regain his memories, and had very promptly left him to be watched by the demon Meg in a mental hospital. Not a great way to treat a friend, looking back on it. 

In the letter, Castiel did not seem to hold any grudge. Although Sam doubted he truly ever could, with Dean. The letter read:

> Dean. 
> 
> Have you seen the flowers? This time of year, I have found, they are at their most glorious. The red ones, in the garden of the hospital, they have five petals each. The petals are yellow on the inside. I would have never noticed it, because you can’t tell unless you’re looking right down into them. I was following a bee, a great bit one, all yellow, and it landed in one of those flowers. How lucky! I looked right down on into it, and I saw the bright yellow smiling back up at me, like the kind, bright summer sun. 
> 
> It’s easy, when in the presence of something as beautiful as that, to forget everything that has gone wrong. Is it terrible, to occupy my mind with the world’s beauty when I was almost the one to destroy it? When I could still be the one to destroy it? I have messed everything up, and I don’t even know how it happened. I don’t believe that any of this pain was ever my intention. I was trying, well, what I was trying to do is not important anymore. 
> 
> I only ever wanted to help. It sounds simple enough when I put it like that, doesn’t it. Dean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did to Sam, and although I know that I healed him by taking the burden for myself, I still put him into danger and so would understand if you can’t forgive me. I will stand by you, if you’ll have me. I will also go, if you wish. I am okay to go. 
> 
> I know I seem different now, and I feel it too. I am not as I used to be, but this is because I know more now. I was dead, gone! I was dead and gone and then, miraculously, I came back. Some joke, probably, to bring me back and make me relive the pain I caused all over again. A mistake, perhaps. In coming back from the dead, though, I’ve realized how many wonderful things I was missing by paying attention only to my duties. 
> 
> Have you ever seen the ocean, Dean? I’m sure you have; you’ve been on Earth for a decent amount of time, as far as humans go. Of course, I’ve seen the ocean many times. I watched as a little grey fish lifted itself up out of the water, too curious to stay in the dark any longer. I never did, however, see the ocean as I did just the other night. The way that the sun reflects in the water, the way everything shone orange and white—you should have been there. I wish you had been there. 
> 
> All of these things that I’ve never experienced to their full extent, or that I’ve never allowed myself to consider. How important _is_ lipstick to you, Dean? I must know. I still do not understand why they test it on the monkeys. I cannot think of a reason why lipstick would be a reasonable thing to put on monkeys, and I’ve devoted quite a bit of thought to it. 
> 
> There is one other thing that I’ve been devoting a significant amount of thinking to. This one was in the back of my mind even before I walked into the river and died, but I’ve never allowed myself to think of it before. It’s wrong. I still know that it’s wrong. It’s not in the plan. But you see, Dean, the plan is imperfect. Isn’t that hilarious! The plan, which I have devoted my centuries and centuries of life to is imperfect! Incomplete! 
> 
> There is a butterfly outside of the window. Its wings are patterned like the finest silk, a rosey pink colour. It flutters against the soft breeze, unbothered. I wish to go outside, to stand in the same breeze and allow it to touch my hair and my skin. So human, the want to experience sensation. It really gives meaning to life, sensation, doesn’t it? What would we be without our ability to touch and feel? Oh, but I have included myself along with you. Your ability, you as a human, not mine. I am simply pretending. 
> 
> I have gone off track. I apologize. I have so much to apologize for, don’t I. Here’s one more thing to add to the pile, then: I’m sorry that I love you. I haven’t allowed myself to write it out until now. There it is, now. Words on a page. 
> 
> Ah, well. 
> 
> I will always be here if you need me. For as long as you want. As long as I can. If you need me, call out for me and I will come. Otherwise, I will leave you alone. You deserve to have me leave you alone. I have destroyed everything, Dean. I am sure that I will only do it again. I killed so many souls, so many angels. I feel their absence like a hole inside of me. When I took on Sam’s burden, it only magnified my pain. It showed me how much of a monster I became. I have no idea how you can even look at me. You saved me from a life of not being myself, and in doing so returned me to you. Do you regret it? I understand why you left me at the hospital; I wouldn’t have wanted to stay with me, either. 
> 
> I have heard that the bees make honey in great hives. That must be quite a sight to behold, and quite a thing to hear! All of their buzzing about together. I would like to play twister. It’s not so bad to play by yourself, as long as you have one hand free to use to turn the spinner. So many things to try. I’ll be waiting for your call. 
> 
> Goodbye, 
> 
> Cas ~~tiel~~

Castiel, even when out of his mind with the curse that he’d taken from Sam, had still been more attuned with his feelings than Dean. Figured. Sam slid Cas’s letters back into the envelope one by one, managing to refrain from reading any more. There were at least thirty-odd letters, all handwritten, all addressed to Dean.

For a moment, a hint of jealousy bubbled up from the bottom of Sam’s throat. Devotion like that Cas gave to Dean was rare, and here was Dean, too tied up in his own bullshit to acknowledge it. Too scared. If Sam had been in Dean’s position, with love so readily available, he was sure he would have been man enough to take it. 

But that wasn’t fair. The way Dean had grown up, will the way that John had joked, had made fun of people who were different in that way… it was no wonder that Dean had so much trouble opening up that part of himself. The jealousy faded into regret for his brother as Sam considered how much shame must cloak the feelings Dean had for Cas. 

They deserved each other, and the love that they would give each other. In this life, as hunters, comfort was hard to find and harder to hold on to. Dean and Cas deserved to have each other to come back to, to hold on to. They had it hard enough already. They shouldn’t have to struggle around this, too. Not when what they both wanted was _right there_.

Sam slid Dean’s letter out from his pocket, and felt sorry for having laughed at it. He could imagine the way that Dean would react if he knew Sam had found the letter, the retorts he’d make, how’d he resort to aggression or rude remarks to hide his embarrassment. No one, especially not Dean, wanted their little brother to read their grief monologue. 

Maybe, though, there was someone who would benefit from reading the letter. Not that Dean would feel any better about it, but if it could begin to move things in the right direction… Dean had been unable to name the obvious love written between the cracks of his letter, but maybe someone else would be able to find it there anyways. Someone who was not unfamiliar with writing his own love letters. 

Sam unfolded Dean’s letter and slipped it between Cas’s inside of the manila envelope. It did not stick out as obviously different with all of the pages pressed together in the confined space. Possibly, Cas wouldn’t even find it.

Sam closed the envelope and hit it back under the pillow, ensuring that everything was as he’d found it before leaving Cas’s room. 

Dean and Cas had solved the case and killed the monster by the next day. They made a crack team. When they returned, Sam stopped himself from making jokes at their expense the best he could. He stopped himself from laughing when a waitress mistook them for a couple, and he didn’t say anything when Dean fell asleep with his head on Cas’s shoulder in the Dean cave. 

If they noticed the difference in Sam’s behavior, they didn’t mention it. But any little help that Sam could give in their star-crossed love, he gave gratefully. It wasn’t often that one got the chance to help bring together two people who meant as much to each other as Dean and Cas did.

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, I learned how to do struck-out words! I hope you liked that little dip into the characters' inner thoughts. 
> 
> Next chapter (the last one :'( ), Cas temporarily loses his healing abilities and must ask Dean for help.


	16. evermore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song 15: evermore
> 
> Castiel is wary of allowing Dean to help him after he's hurt on a hunt (ft. Cas accidentally bursts some light bulbs). 
> 
> Content warning: descriptions of blood/injury

> And I was catching my breath  
>  Floors of a cabin creaking under my step  
>  And I couldn't be sure  
>  I had a feeling so peculiar  
>  This pain wouldn't be for  
>  Evermore
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, evermore

  


* * *

  
“I don’t need anything from you.” Cas pressed the palm of his better hand into the solid ground, wavering for a moment before he pushed himself to standing. Mostly standing. A good portion of his weight was being supported by the cool wall behind him. 

Dean’s expression had opened up into something like shock: his lips were parted and his eyes wide. His hand continued wiping at his demon knife, although the rag was coated and at this point he was mostly just smearing the blood back and forth. 

“Cas? You were... How’d you get here?” He asked, distraught.

“Cas is here?” Sam’s voice carried in from the hallway seconds before he appeared. He’d been cleaning a wound; one sleeve of his shirt was rolled up past his elbow. A smile broke across his face as he stepped up to Castiel, greeting him with a hand on Cas’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy. Good to see you made it out alright.” 

The contact spiked pain throughout the left side of Castiel’s body. He grimaced and tried to pull slightly away from it. 

Sam caught the movement, withdrawing his hand. “Or are you not alright?” 

“We were gettin’ torn to bits out there, Cas. After they used the sigil to blow you away, Sam and I hardly got out,” Dean cut in. He’d managed to regain control of his expression, although the worry line in the center of his brown had yet to smooth out. “How’d you make it through? You were pretty bloodied up.” 

“The banishing sigil did not hurt me any more than I’d already been injured, however,” Castiel pulled himself straighter against the wall, “I believe that it has put some sort of block on my healing abilities.” 

“So, no mojo left?” Dean guessed. 

Castiel lifted his hand out in front of himself, palm forwards. Nothing came when he called, healing abilities or otherwise. He let his arm drop back down, using it to secure himself against the wall. He frowned. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate staying here in the bunker, at least until I regain some strength.”

“You can hardly stand, Cas,” Sam said. “Of course we’re not going to kick you out.” 

“Yeah, no. ‘Course.” Dean echoed. He set the knife and cleaning rag onto the table behind him, and came at Cas with empty hands. 

Castiel, out of habit, tucked his head to the side in self-protection. In the garrison, weakness was not rewarded, and the routines ingrained within him way back then had yet to entirely fade. He pressed himself flush against the wall, imagining someone with celestial strength coming towards him, their intentions to teach and to punish. 

Dean’s arms gently pushed itself between the wall and Cas’s lower back, wrapping around him. The touch was soft, so different from what he’d been fearing, and Cas thought _there’s no way he’ll be able to support me like this,_ but when Dean pulled them smoothly away from the wall, Castiel did not fall. 

Cas let his heavy head loll until he could feel Dean’s warm breath ruffling his hair. His whole body ached, and yet he would rather stay standing like this than rest if it meant he could be this close to Dean. This close, and without anything getting in the way. He was sure the peace would last for only this precious moment. At some point, they’d moved from the bunker’s library into the hallway. Castiel’s steps were short and scuffed; Dean matched his own to the same pace. 

“What happened out there, man,” Dean asked quietly once they’d covered half the length of the hallway. “I saw your hands on that demon, ready to smite it, and then you just… didn’t.” 

“Oh,” Cas said, buying time. Here it was, the wedge sliding back in between them. He knew what Dean was referring to, and had been anticipating this line of conversation; the memory of that snap decision tugged at his mind just as his cuts tugged at his body. “The demon in the woman’s vessel, with the brown hair...” 

“Yeah, her.” Dean’s free hand brushed up over his own shoulder, and ghosted down Cas’s fingers. Cas had, he only now realized, wrapped his arm around Dean’s back. 

“That demon, you’ve met her before,” Cas explained tentatively, choosing his words carefully. “She and Sam have a... history. I was not always in support of their... arrangement, and I’m still sure that he was going down a dark path with her, but they got to know each other and I couldn’t bring myself to-” 

“A demon we’ve met? A history with Sam?” Dean stopped their movement. “Are you talkin’ about Ruby?” 

“Yes, I-” 

Dean removed his arm from around Cas’s back at the same time as he pushed Cas away from him. Cas fell towards the wall at his side, trying to catch himself and remove his weight from his worse leg. Dean’s hands had found him again before Cas had managed to either fully fall or fully stand. Dean thumped Castiel’s back into the wall. Pain spun through Cas’s head. 

“Ruby’s dead, Cas. I killed her myself. If you’re right, and she’s back, then she was brought back by something big. Which means that you just blew a chance at saving us from a lot of trouble.” Dean’s fisted hands held Cas back by the lapels of his trench coat. “What the Hell, man?” 

Cas pushed himself unevenly upwards, trying to bring his face level with Dean’s. The position pulled painfully at the gashes in his abdomen. “Sam deserved to at least speak with her first, Dean.” 

“Oh yeah, because she was so good to him,” Dean growled.

“They had a history.” Cas said, emphasizing each word breathily. “If it were me in Sam’s position, I would have wanted a chance to see her.” 

“You’ve gone soft, man.” Dean used his grip on Cas’s coat to tear him away from the wall, continuing their procession forwards. His arm around Cas’s back now grasped painfully into Cas’s sore body. “A year ago you would’a smoked her, no questions asked,” Dean added. He turned them towards a door — bedroom number seventeen — and used his free hand to let them in. “What changed?” 

Castiel didn’t answer. He said nothing as Dean walked them over to the made bed, and said nothing as he allowed Dean to drop him onto the mattress. He lied down on his back over top of the sheets, eyes on the ceiling, and stayed quiet as Dean’s footsteps followed back towards the hallway. He waited until Dean had left, and the door had closed behind him. 

The truth was, Cas hadn’t known, in the moment, that he was going to spare Ruby. His hand had been raised, his strike ready, but as he’d started to call his power forwards, he’d pictured Dean in Ruby’s place. 

Ruby and Sam’s relationship had been flawed, completely, and Cas wasn’t about to make any claims that it had been anything close to love. But when he looked at his feelings for Dean from the perspective of the angels, Cas couldn’t help seeing similarities. Where Ruby had tainted Sam with her demon blood, the angels believed that Dean tainted Castiel with his humanity. 

If the angels were to capture Dean, to have him in their grasp with the possibility of killing him, Cas would beg them for the chance to say goodbye. He couldn’t strip that from Sam, the possibility of speaking once more to someone that he’d long had to leave behind. He couldn’t be the jury and executioner for a story that he had no real part in. 

Castiel agreed with Dean’s assessment — he had gone soft. He was wearing a whole array of injuries to prove it. The near-smiting of Ruby had thrown him off of his game, left him too deep in his thoughts. When the sigil had been drawn, Cas had hardly even noticed it before he’d been banished from the fight. It had been a mercy, in some ways, to have received the free pass out, loss of healing abilities notwithstanding. 

The bed groaned as Cas slid himself off of it, and he grumbled right along with it. He walked shakily across the room, using the walls and furniture to his advantage. Once he’d made it into the adjoining bathroom, he braced one hand onto the sink as he took in his reflection in the mirror. 

The splattering of blood across his cheekbones, he determined, was only splashes from other injuries. Cas wet a washcloth under the tap and brushed it over his cheeks, the course material pricking his skin. His scrubbed until his face was red, long after the blood had been washed away. 

His trench coat came slowly off of his shoulders, and he let it fall to the floor. It landed in a heap around his feet, patches of it darkening in the small puddles of water that had dripped over the sink. Castiel removed his suit jacket and button-up shirt in much the same way, trying to ignore the painful pull as he maneuvered his arms, and letting them all fall to the floor. 

In the mirror’s reflection, the gashes across his chest and stomach shone a murky burgundy. They were not deep, but they were numerous, and Castiel gritted his teeth as he pulled the washcloth over them. The demon wielding the angel blade had failed to get in a good attack, but he had not missed his mark completely. 

For the flesh wounds, it would be easy enough to let them scab over and heal. Castiel was more worried about the searing pain in his left shoulder, and the thrumming heat in his right knee. He couldn’t even begin to think of asking Dean to let him stay for long enough to heal a knee injury in the human way. 

Without Sam’s insistence, Cas wasn’t even sure that Dean would have let him stay at all. 

The washcloth came back dripping red after a few swipes, and Castiel rang it out over the sink. He ran the tap water until all the blood had washed away down the drain. He squeezed the cloth in his fist, letting beads of water run over his knuckles. He raised his gaze to meet his own eyes in the mirror. 

“He doesn’t love you, you know,” Castiel told himself. 

The words hurt worse than the sting of reapplying the washcloth to his open wounds. The words, though, were a necessary pain. What would happen if Castiel allowed himself to believe, for only a second, that his relationship with Dean was anything like that? 

Castiel couldn’t let himself forget what he was: an angel of the Lord; Castiel was anything but fragile and needy. He could never be loved by something as vital and human as Dean. He was fairly certain that he’d never been loved at all. Angels, he’d long told himself, were just not meant for love. That was something that had been created afterwards. Angels, he had to believe, were built only to serve. Devotion was loyalty and commitment, but it wasn’t love. 

Castiel pressed the cloth deep against his wounds, catching the breath of pain before it moved past his lips. Just look at what the notion of love had done to him! He pulled the cloth along the length of the wound, and dabbed it to the skin on either side. Catching his eyes in the mirror once more, Castiel was surprised by their watery state, like tears were seconds away from falling. “And anyways,” he reminded himself, “love is not your purpose.” 

It looked so simple for the beings on Earth. Love was not only for the humans; animals cared for each other, Castiel had seen, as a mother bird had risked her own time and energy to care for her young. To teach them how to fly. No one had been there the first time Castiel’s wings had lifted him from the ground. No one had been there to tell him, “it’s okay if you’re scared of falling, because I will be here to catch you.” 

And rightfully so, because when he had fallen, it had been straight down onto the unyielding ground. 

Perhaps love was not always easy for the humans, but it was beautiful. It was as much art and poetry as anything that Castiel had ever seen them create. He could be happy for them, watching and never having. He could, he tried to convince himself, even be happy to watch Dean fall in love. Dean deserved love, even if it would break Castiel. 

But jealousy wasn’t an angel’s purpose, either. 

Castiel used his toe to lift his button-up shirt away from the ground, and leaned sideways to catch it with his fingers. The cut across the palm of his hand had stopped bleeding. The shirt stuck to his skin where water clung to him, and the buttons, as he did them up one by one, pressed uncomfortably into the cuts. He tried to ignore the blood stains and gashes through the fabric — it wasn’t like he had any other shirt to put on. 

He slid the trench coat back around his shoulders, but left his tie and jacket behind. With the angel-blade gashes cleaned, there wasn’t anything more to do for himself other than wait, and waiting could be done anywhere. Cas had no reason to remain in the bunker, to force Dean to tolerate his presence, or to force himself to pretend. 

Cas made it, wavering on his shaky legs, through the corridor. Seeing no one, he thought he might even manage to leave without having to explain himself, but the hope was swiftly betrayed when Dean called out to him from the kitchen. Cas’s shoulders tightened, and he fought the urge to continue forwards. He turned around to face Dean, bracing himself against the kitchen doorway. 

“Where’s the fire, Cas?” Dean asked. He had his hip leaned against the countertop and held a sandwich with both hands. Although his tone had been flippant, his eyebrows were knitted together. 

“... What… fire?” Cas started, then shook his head slightly, figuring that he’d missed some unimportant joke, and delved into what he really had to say. “Thank you for allowing me to rest here. I’ll be on my way now.” 

Dean took a bite of the sandwich, chewed, and with his mouth still full, said, “so you’re all healed up, then?” 

“Well, no, but-” Castiel shifted his weight between his feet, felt the strain in his knee, and leaned harder against the doorframe. “I’ve done all I can for the moment.” 

“What’s the rush? Something you’re eager to get to out there?” Dean dropped the half-eaten sandwich onto his plate dramatically. “Something better than staying here with me and Sam?”

“You said it yourself, Dean: I can’t be trusted to make the right choices. I’ve changed. I couldn’t even smite a demon because of some… emotional hang up.”

“I'm not gonna say what you did was perfect, Cas, because it wasn't; but everyone’s got their stuff! You think me or Sam never done anything stupid in the moment?” 

“I will not stay here against your wishes,” Cas said coldly. 

Dean tapped his fingers against the counter, then, seemingly unsatisfied, slammed his fist down instead. His plate shook with a metallic clink. 

“You’d rather leave and, what, struggle out there? How will you protect yourself?”

Cas ran a hand absentmindedly over the gashes in his shirt, and replied, “I’m an angel of the Lord, Dean. I’m sure I’ll manage.” 

“An angel with no juice, Cas,” Dean bit out through his teeth. He motioned with one hand towards Castiel, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but stopped himself. He crossed his arms over his chest, and dropped Cas’s gaze. “If you leave, I’ll be worried about you, and that’ll- it’ll… distract me. On hunts, okay? So you’re gonna stay here.” 

Cas’s eyes tightened as he considered. “Distract?” 

Dean raised his eyes only to glare at Cas. He seemed to be saying _Dammit, Cas, read between the lines for once._ But the only conclusion Castiel could come to on his own was that Dean would be distracted because he'd have to worry about putting himself in danger to protect Cas, which was all the more reason for Cas to leave now. 

He was about to point this out to Dean, to say that it was all the more reason for Cas to leave now, when the pain in his knee exploded up his leg. The air from his lungs rushed out of his lips with a sharp moan, and he tried to tighten his fingers around the doorframe to keep himself up, but the word had begun to spin. 

He fell quite squarely onto the hard ground, the jolt shaking up to his injured shoulder and his pounding head. He was almost grateful when his skull hit back against the floor, if only to let him rest for a moment. Something felt off, however. The ground under his head was… softer, somehow, than what the rest of him had landed on. 

Cas opened his eyes, not remembering having closed them, and was met by a pair of very worried, very intense green eyes hovering right over him. 

“What the Hell happened, man?” Dean asked softly. “One second you were standing there, talkin’, and then down onto the ground! No warning. I hardly had time to-” Dean wiggled his fingers underneath Cas’s head, and Cas realized that the soft thing cushioning his skull was Dean’s hand.

Dean waited, each exhale tickling across Cas’s face. Cas tried to say to Dean, _see, this is why I can’t stay. Something will happen and you won’t be able to protect yourself, because you’ll have to look after me._ His lips wouldn’t make the words. 

“Alright, buddy,” Dean said after a moment. “Let’s sit you up.” He used the hand under Cas’s head to lift him forwards, ensured that Cas could rest back comfortably against the wall, and slid himself over so they sat together. Dean folded his knees awkwardly in front of himself. 

“There, distraction,” Cas said, not the full point, but maybe Dean would get the idea. 

“Because I had to help you?” Dean asked kindly. “We’re family, Cas. That’s kinda in the job description.” 

“You said I had to stay because I would distract you on hunts.” 

“Well, yeah. But that’s ‘cause then I _wouldn’t_ be able to help you.” 

“I’m confused.” Cas leaned to the side to look at Dean. Dean’s head was turned stiffly forwards, his profile to Cas. He was studying the ground with a great interest. 

“It’s not that complicated, Cas,” Dean sighed. “Now that I know that death is a, a real possibility for you, I worry. About you, and losing you, I don’t-” He swung himself around so that they sat facing each other. “Dammit, Cas, I can’t lose you again. So don’t go making some stupid show of leaving just because you don’t wanna seem weak. Be weak, fuck, let others help you!” Dean's voice had raised to echo through the kitchen, and his eyes were wild with something like passion or fear.

“Dean, you don’t...” _You don’t mean that. You don’t know what you’re saying._

“Castiel,” Dean placed one palm on Cas’s cheek, his hand warm and gentle and calloused. Cas leaned into it. All he wanted was to stay here, to really be a part of the family. To never be asked to leave again. To have a real home. 

“Cas,” Dean started again, their eyes locking together. “I want you to stay here. Please. I’ll always want you to stay here.” 

Those words from Dean's lips were like a shot of adrenaline right to Cas's heart. The world through his eyes turned bright white. A great crash sounded from above them, shards of glass scattering down from the ceiling. Literal sparks flew as the lights burst apart, first alighting the room, then plunging them into near darkness. 

Dean let out a surprised laugh. “I think I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Cas let his hand drift upwards, ghosting it over top of Dean’s. Dean’s face drew slowly closer to his, his eyes floating downwards to Cas’s lips. Cas let himself lean forwards… 

“Hey, what happened, guys? Did Cas’s powers come back?” Sam swung himself around the kitchen door, voice bouncing off the walls loudly in the charged silence. Dean pulled away roughly, his hand trying to leave Cas’s face so quickly that it ended up hitting Cas’s thigh on the way down. 

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean grumbled. He brushed his hands together and stalked out of the room. 

“What?’ Sam called after him. When Dean didn’t answer he turned to Cas. “What’s his problem?” 

“Perhaps his sandwich was not to his liking,” Cas said as he picked himself up off the floor. He ran a hand over his chest, relieved to find that the cuts had healed themselves already. He rolled his shoulder back, and found that what had before been a terrible pain was now only a slight pull. In a show of excitement, he lit the room up with golden light from his palms. 

“Will you be heading back to Heaven now, then?” Sam asked. He’d retrieved the broom and was sweeping up the burst light bulbs. 

“No,” Cas said with a soft smile. “I think I’ll stay a while.”

  


❖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, folks! I sure hope that you enjoyed this little tasting platter (if you will) of destiel fics. 
> 
> Did you have a favourite? Or one that surprised you? Any other comments? I would so so love to hear from you guys :) 
> 
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> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope that you have a lovely rest of your day <3


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